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THE MAN WITH ATHUMB 


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THE 


MAN WITH A THUMB 



W. C. HUDSON 

M 

(BARCLA Y NORTH) 


AUTHOR OF “THE DIAMOND BUTTON: WHOSE WAS IT?” 
“ JACK GORDON, KNIGHT ERRANT, GOTHAM, 1883,” 
“VIVIER, OF VIVIER, LONGMAN & CO., 

BANKERS,” ETC., ETC. 



NEW YORK 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY 

104 & TO 6 FOURTH AVENUE 

/*: i \ 



Copyright, 

1891, 

By CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


< < 
C < C 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS f 
RAHWAY, N. J, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 
VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 
XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 


“ Why ! it is Blood ! ” . , 

A Mysterious Tragedy, 

“How Fortune Plies her Sports,” 

The Hearing Ear and the Seeing Eye, 
Lets in New Light through Chinks, 
Weaving a Theory, .... 

Setting Up a Man of Fashion, 

✓ 

An Adventure 

The Man with a Thumb, . 

By Ways Unknown, .... 
Tall, Slim, with Brown Hair, 
Narrowing the Circle, 

New Disappointments, . 

Lowering Skies, 

Crushing a Rebellion, . 

Bread Found After Many Days, 

Piecing out a Story, . 

The Story Pieced Out, 

Eustace in the Toils, . 

A Mystery Repealed, .... 

iii 


PAGE 

I 

14 

26 

40 

50 

60 

70 

80 

90 

IOI 

IIO 

119 

133 

146 

156 

164 

177 

195 

204 

218 


IV 

CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 

XXI, 

An Unexpected Turn, 

PAGE 

. . . 227 

XXII. 

Strange Revelations, . 

CO 

OO 

XXIII. 

A Sign it is of Evil Life, 

. 251 

XXIV. 

Cathcart Closes his Books, 

. . 261 

XXV. 

Conclusion, . 

. . . 265 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ WHY ! IT IS BLOOD. 

O CTOBER of 1879 and a brisk evening. The 
hour is nine. People walk rapidly under*the 
stimulus of the cool night air. 

One of the number, however, does not. Closely 
examining the buildings on either side of the street, 
he moves along slowly. Sometimes he stops on 
the curbstone and gazes intently at a house upon 
the opposite side. Thus he makes slow progress 
until he reaches the corner of Broadway and Bleecker 
Street. Here he stops and peers down the cross 
street. Apparently he debates with himself as to 
which way he shall go. Slowly he walks off in the 
direction of the Bowery and — into the middle of 
events which powerfully influence his whole life. 

He was a tall, athletic man. A careless observer 
would have said he was nearly forty. But he was 
in fact barely thirty-one. The stern, deep-seated 
lines of his face, suggesting settled grief, or harsh 
experiences in life, made him appear older than he 
was — these, and an expression of habitual melan- 
choly. 


1 


2 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


His course lay upon the lower or south side of 
Bleecker Street. Crossing Crosby, he walked a few 
rods and then stopped in front of a house upon the 
opposite side. 

Certainly, the reason lay in no peculiarity of the 
house. It was not particularly distinguished from 
its neighbors. As a matter of fact it bore a resem- 
blance to them all, for it was one of a row of old- 
fashioned houses all built at the same time. Though 
degraded from the high rank they had once held, 
they had not lost entirely their pretentions to dig- 
nity. Dingy they had become, but that air of 
spaciousness, so lacking in our modern architecture, 
they still possessed. In spite of the degenerate 
times upon which they had fallen, they still had the 
power to force you to consider the days when they 
were prosperous and fashionable. 

This particular house was of brick, three stories 
high with a low basement. The windows of the 
second and third stories* were ablaze with light, and 
at them were to be seen, even at that hour, the 
occupants of the rooms they lit, at work. The first 
or parlor floor was dark. The front door, with its 
rounded casement, minutely carved, to which a 
flight of three or four marble steps led, was wide 
open, but there was no light in the hall. Between 
what were once, at least, the parlor windows, 
fastened to the brick front was a new oval sign, 
displaying a young woman whose yellow bodice 
was very low, whose blue skirts were very short, 
and whose red boots were very high, dancing upon 


“ WHY ! IT IS BLOOD." 


3 


rose-colored clouds, a suggestion of ethereality 
utterly destroyed by the robustness of her nether 
limbs and the abnormal breadth of her bared shoul- 
ders. While she danced she held a black mask 
before eyes roguishly but fixedly cast, indiscrim- 
inately, upon all passers-by. Over her head were 
the words, “ Madame Delamour”; under her feet 
the single one “ Costumer. ” 

Under these parlor windows, stretching across 
the whole width of the house, was a long, narrow 
sign bearing the words, “ Weinhandlung.” 

One of the windows of the basement front had 
been transformed into a door. On either side of 
this door was a tub painted green. In each tub 
was an evergreen tree, slowly turning yellow. The 
iron fence which once had separated the sunken 
area from the pavement had been removed. The 
light streamed forth brightly and invitingly from 
both door and window. 

“ That is the house,” muttered the young man 
on the other side of the street. “To what base 
uses we may return, and so forth. I have a fancy to 
see the inside of it.” 

Crossing the street the young man entered the 
“Weinhandlung.” Inside he swept the room with 
his eyes, ancfan expression of astonishment mingled 
with disappointment passed over his face. 

To accommodate the business of the dispenser 
of wines, the partitions had been torn out, so that 
the whole basement floor was one room. Where 
the hall had been the bar was, and behind the bar 


4 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


a stolid-looking German, smoking a long pipe, con- 
templating without the suggestion of an expression 
upon his large, round face, a group noisily playing 
a game of cards. In the rear of the room were 
two billiard tables. In the corner on the left as 
one entered was a round table at which there were 
four chairs and on it several newspapers. 

The young man sat himself at this table, taking 
the chair in the corner, which, while it secured him 
comparative privacy, enabled him to command the 
room at a glance. At one of the small tables in the 
middle of the room, and in close proximity to the 
card-players, sat an old gentleman, perhaps seventy, 
deeply engrossed in his newspaper. As the young 
man entered he lifted his head. Something in the 
new-comer’s appearance arrested his attention. He 
laid his paper upon his knees and followed the 
young man with his eyes, and his face took on an 
expression of perplexity. Though he resumed 
reading, his eyes ever and anon wandered to the 
young man in the corner. Soon his paper lost 
interest for him, for he again laid it on his knees and 
looked into space over his spectacles, without losing 
his thoughtful, perplexed expression. 

The young man summoned the stolid proprietor 
and ordered a stoup of wine and a cigar. His 
orders complied with, he struck a match, and as he 
held it up in the air with his right hand, until the 
sulphur should have burned away, he held his cigar 
within an inch of his lips with his left hand. The 
old gentleman, watching him covertly, smiled ; 


“WHY ! IT IS BLOOD. 


5 


the wrinkles on his brow vanished, the perplexed 
expression passed away, and nodding to himself 
approvingly, he returned to his paper. By-and-bye 
he beckoned to the proprietor, and by a gesture 
indicated that he desired the empty glass at his 
elbow refilled. An unusually loud outburst came 
from the card-players ; with a smothered exclama- 
tion of disgust, he picked up his glass and crossed 
to the table at which the young man was sitting, 
saying politely: 

“ Shall I be intruding if I seat myself at this 
table ? Our friends, the card-players, are boister- 
ous ; they annoy me.” 

“ By no means,” replied the young man. “ I 
imagine every vacant chair in the room belongs to 
the man who claims it.” 

With a bow, the old man sat down. 

“ Perhaps so,” he said, “ but an etiquette obtains, 
or should obtain even here, and I would not intrude 
upon one wishing to be alone.” 

“ I am alone,” returned the young man, “ not 
because I wish to be, but because, in a whole cityful 
of people, I am.” 

“ A stranger to the city, then? ” inquired the old 
man. 

“ Yes, and no,” was the reply, in the manner of 
one propounding a riddle. “I am not a stranger, 
for I was born here. I am, because I have been 
continuously absent for the past eight years. I 
walked the streets to-day without seeing a face I 
knew, and I do not know where to go to find one I 
formerly did know.” 


6 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“New York is a large city, and like all large 
cities its face takes on a new expression each year. 
You have but just returned then ? ” 

“ This morning.” 

“ It is strange the more celebrated places did not 
attract you.” 

“ I stepped out of my hotel near by for the fresh 
air, and I strolled hither under the influence of a 
recollection of my boyhood, almost infantile, days.” 

For an instant only, the old man peered over his 
glasses sharply at his companion, and then said : 

“ I am much attached to this house, not because 
my habit leads me here nightly, but because I have 
been familiar with it ever since I was a young man.” 

The old man lifted his glass and sipped his beer, 
apparently unconscious that he had said anything 
to attract the increased attention the young man 
gave him. 

“ Even younger than you are now,” he continued. 
“ Lord ! Lord ! what dinners I have eaten — what 
gay times I have had in this very room. A young 
friend of mine — we boarded in Chambers Street 
together in those days — bought this house while it 
was yet building, and when it was finished, carried 
his sweet young bride into it. And a great house- 
warming we had too. I was opposed to it — that is, 
to the house ; I thought it too fine for him to begin 
on ; for you must know, young sir, there were few 
finer houses in this city when this was built. Yet 
he could afford it. Young as he was, he was the 
head of a flourishing business, built up by his 


“WHY! IT IS BLOOD." 


7 


father, who had died and left it to his only son, 
with a number of old and experienced clerks. Yes, 
indeed, no house in this city stood higher than that 
of Dorison & Co.” 

As the old man indulged his reminiscential vein, 
the younger kept his dark eyes fixed upon him, and 
at the mention of the name of the firm the color 
crept slowly into his cheeks. 

“Yes, there have been gay times in this old 
house,” continued the old man. “ I have seen the 
beauty and chivalry of old New York gathered 
within these walls. Sometimes when the weather 
is fair I venture out to the park to see the ladies 
drive by, whom as young girls, in all their bravery 
of silks and laces, I have seen sweep up and down 
these stairs. Happy times, indeed ! I was always 
welcome here as the confidential friend of the head 
of the house, and I love it in its degradation. I 
have seen sorrow and mourning here, too. I have 
followed each one of Dorison’s children through 
the door above to their graves — save the youngest, 
a boy. But the time came when this house was 
not fine enough for Dorison, and he moved into a 
brownstone front in Twenty-third Street. There 
disaster fell upon him. His wife died and he was 
never the same man. He retired from business — a 
mistake, for the time hung heavily on his hands, 
and he drooped. His only interest was his only 
son — only child in fact. I saw him daily if in 
town, but in those years, having interests abroad, I 
was away from town a great deal.” 


a 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


He interrupted himself to sip his beer. Had he 
looked at the young man he would have seen a most 
singular expression on his face ; high color showing 
through his dusky skin and eyes intense and burn- 
ing. The old man did not, for he continued calmly; 

“ Dorison and his son lived in this fine house 
alone for some years. Then one morning early, a 
servant entering the library found Dorison bent 
over the table at work. Wondering at the early 
rising of his master, he spoke. Receiving no 
answer, he went up to him. Dorison was dead. 
He had died in the act of writing a letter. The 
most singular thing of it was, that his executors 
found that he, whom we all supposed so rich, had 
not a dollar. The very house he lived in was mort- 
gaged to its full value.” 

The young man leaned forward, and extending 
his hand laid it upon the arm of the elder man, say- 
ing with great decision : 

“ You have a purpose in telling me this story ! ” 

The old man looked up with a surprised air as he 
replied : 

“ What purpose, young sir, could I have in telling 
such a story to an entire stranger? ” 

The young man made no reply for a moment, but 
continued to gaze steadily into the eyes of the elder 
one, as if thinking profoundly. Then he said in a* 
deep, low voice, quivering with emotion : 

“ I will continue the story. Mr. Dorison was 
fond of the young man his son, treating him indul- 
gently and giving him a most generous allowance. 


“WHY r IT IS BLOOD” 


9 


The son was a youngster caught up in the whirl of 
fashion — a member of the leading clubs, following 
what you doubtless would call a fast life, but as 
compared with others not fast. If extravagant, he 
brought no trouble upon his father ; if reckless in 
his life, no disgrace upon the name of Dorison. 
The letter his father was writing, when he was so 
suddenly stricken with death, ruined the son. To 
whom this letter was addressed, or what the father’s 
motive in writing it, never was known, and it is 
doubtful now whether these things ever will be 
known. The letter ran thus : 

“ My Dear Friend : The end is well-nigh 
reached. Indeed, if you cannot immediately give 
me the assistance I need, it is even now reached. 
With such assistance and a few years more of life, 
all can be repaired. I am a broken man in spirit 
and in health. The last few years I have been tor- 
tured as no human being ever was, I believe. I 
have been compelled to sit helplessly by and see a 
fine property devoted to covering the consequences 
of crime ; to making good forgeries on my own 
name, against which I could not even lift my voice 
in protest ; to repairing losses of others by rob- 
beries and defalcations ; to stopping the wheels of 
justice, which if permitted to go on would have 
brought exposure and disgrace ; and all the while 
have been compelled to sustain and conceal the 
knowledge that all this was done and brought upon 
me by an ungrateful son, who — ” 

“ Death fell upon him,” continued the young man, 
“the moment he had condemned the son. To 
whom was this letter addressed ? Crushed and 


io THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

agonized, the son in a frenzy sought the one to 
whom it was written as a means of proving that the 
condemnation of the son by the dying father was 
untrue. All efforts were unavailing. The fact of 
the condemnation was bruited about ; it became 
known in the clubs ; it became public property ; it 
was published in the papers ; the police undertook 
to bring the crimes alleged against the son home to 
him, but they were no more successful than he was 
in his efforts to . disprove them. His friends fell 
away from him ; the doors of his acquaintances were 
closed against him ; he was cut on the streets. 
Efforts being made to expel him from one club, he 
resigned from all and fled the city, practically pen- 
niless, under an assumed name. Seeking employ- 
ment in a Western city, he remained until a few days 
ago, when, under an impulse he could not restrain, 
he returned to the city of his birth after eight years’ 
absence. I am he — John Dorison — disgraced by 
his dead father, not by himself.” 

“ I was sure of it ; I was sure of it,” murmured 
the old man. 

“ You too,” continued the young man, his voice 
trembling with the violence of his emotion, “ you 
too, a friend of my father, believed and do now 
believe the libel my father left me as his only 
heritage.” 

There was something so despairing and even 
pathetic in the attitude and intensity of the young 
man, that the spectacles of the old gentleman 
became dimmed with moisture. There was no 


11 WHY ! IT IS BLOOD r il 

appeal for belief in the tones of the young man. 
The elder read utter hopelessness in the intense 
dark eyes bent upon him ; he saw the grief under- 
lying the strong face which he had newly aroused 
was an old settled grief, not one finding expression 
in wild gestures and fierce words, but one that had 
come to abide with the young man forever, with 
which its possessor had become familiar as with a 
daily companion from whom he never expected to 
be parted. 

The old gentleman, regarding the face of the 
younger closely and for the first time openly, 
replied slowly and forcibly : 

“ No ; I did not believe the charge when f first 
heard it ; I never have believed it ; I do not believe 
it now.” 

The reply was unexpected. Dorison fell back 
in his chair with a gasp, staring blankly at the elder 
man. At the end of eight years, and for the first 
time, he had found one who believed him innocent 
of the charges. 

“You — believe — me — innocent — of — those — vile 
— charges ? ” 

“ I do,” emphatically returned the old man. 
“ When your father died I was absent from the 
city. After I returned and I learned the circum- 
stances, I sought you to say so and to offer my 
assistance, but you had left the city.” 

Still staring at the elder man as if not compre- 
hending what was said to him, Dorison remained 


12 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


silent. Suddenly, and the question came as if 
driven from a gun, he asked : 

“Why?” 

“ Because,” replied the old man slowly, “ I knew 
something of your life ; because I had heard your 
father praise your conduct, your character, and 
your rectitude, and, therefore, believed that in his 
sane mind he could not mean you ; because of cer- 
tain matters within my own knowledge, perhaps it 
were better to say suspicions, which I have never 
mentioned to any man and which I will not now, 
at all events until I can look over my papers and 
refresh my memory. That letter of your father’s 
has always been an incomprehensible mystery to 
me, and the most charitable construction I can put 
upon it is that he was not a sane man when he 
penned it. But what became of his great fortune ? ” 

The young man laughed bitterly. 

“ Your words, the first of belief in my innocence 
I have ever heard, are grateful and comforting. If 
your belief were based upon more substantial rea- 
sons, it would give me what I am now utterly with- 
out — hope. My life has been ruined by that unfin- 
ished letter. Such is the only result I have reached 
after eight years of endeavor to fathom the incom- 
prehensibility.” 

“ My dear young sir,” said the old man, kindly, 
but with a tone of pain in his voice, as he leaned 
forward and laid his hand upon the arm of the 
younger one, “ I can understand your bitterness. 
I sympathize with you from the bottom of my 


“WHY! IT IS BLOOD. 


n 


heart. I admire you, that with the strong feeling 
you naturally have, you have given expression to 
not one word of abuse of the parent who did you 
this almost irreparable injury. However, it is time 
for me to go to bed. Come and see me to-morrow 
at my office. We will talk this matter over then 
and see what can be done. Here is my card. 
Good-night.” 

The old man went out briskly. Dorison re- 
mained staring at the card, which bore these 
words, “Job Nettleman. Commercial paper nego- 
tiated. No. — Broad Street, New York City.” 

He fell back in his chair in a confusion of 
thought. Light seemed to be breaking upon his 
dark horizon. Would the sun rise ? One man 
believed him innocent. It was not much, to be 
sure, but he could not let go the fact. His mem- 
ory was aroused to acute activity. He lived over 
again those agonized days following the death of 
his father; his frenzy, his wild rebelling against 
his fate, his desperate endeavors to escape the evil 
consequences of that unfinished letter ; his mad 
efforts to prove himself guiltless — all this passed in 
review before him, and again he felt the sharpness, 
the bitterness, the agony of those days, and he 
became oblivious to his surroundings. 

Suddenly he was startled into consciousness of 
external things by a cry of horrified surprise. It 
came from one of the card-players : 

“ Why ! it is blood.” 


CHAPTER II. 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 

T HERE was commotion in the room at once. 

Every one sprang to his feet. Crowding 
about the table from whence the outcry came, they 
looked up to the ceiling, from whence the drop 
which had excited the exclamation had apparently 
fallen. 

A long, irregular crack in the ceiling was plainly 
visible. At one end, that over the table, a small, 
dark spot was to be seen. Dorison, who had come 
with the rest, sprang upon the table. Hardly had 
he assumed an erect position when the small, dark 
spot, resolving itself into a globule, dropped off, 
barely escaping his clothes, being immediately suc- 
ceeded by another spot. 

“ It is blood,” he said. “It is dripping through 
this crack. It must come from the floor above. 
Who occupies it ? ” 

All eyes were turned upon the German proprie- 
tor, who, in reply to this mute questioning, said : 

“ I don’t know. Dey haf shoost move in. Dey 
vos kostumers.” 

“ Some one may have been murdered,” suggested 
a voice in the crowd. 

In an instant, as if by a common impulse, every 


14 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 1$ 

one ran out and mounted the steps leading to the 
front door, leaving Dorison alone with the proprie- 
tor. The trampling of many feet upon the floor 
above and poundings on the door for admission 
was heard. 

Clambering down from the table, Dorison asked 
the German if there was not a rear entrance to the 
first floor. 

“ Yaw,” replied the German. “ Go dat door 
owit and oop the stairs.” 

Dorison hurried through the door pointed out 
and found, at his right, a flight of steps which he 
ascended quickly. Pushing open the door at the 
top, he entered a sheltered veranda. He tried the 
door leading into the hall, but it was locked. He 
sought the first window opening on the veranda, 
and on trying to lift the lower sash it ran up with 
ease. A curtain obstructed his way, which he 
pushed aside and stepped into a large, square room, 
unfurnished, save by two chairs and a worn carpet. 
The gas burned dimly at a side jet. 

He crossed the room to the sliding doors, which 
were closed, but he found no difficulty in throwing 
one back. Heavy curtains confronted him ; part- 
ing them he passed into a room well lighted. 

He recoiled with an exclamation of horror. At 
his feet lay the body of a woman weltering in her 
own blood. Of steady nerves and strong self-con- 
trol, yet the scene sickened him, and he staggered 
back almost fainting, the while those in the hall 
were thundering at the door. 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


. 16 


The woman had fallen forward, and as she had 
done so her face had been turned toward her right 
shoulder, her right arm stretched out as if she had 
grasped at something and missed it. Where the 
neck was exposed an small gash was seen from 
which the blood had spurted and streamed in tor- 
rents, covering her dress and all things in her 
immediate vicinity. A small stand, evidently heavily 
weighted with articles of clothing of fantastic color 
and shape, had been overturned in the struggle 
which preceded the murder, for the goods were 
scattered some distance and the woman had fallen 
upon them. 

Recovering almost immediately from the first 
shock of surprise and horror, Dorison bent over the 
body. It was that of a young woman, perhaps 
twenty-six or seven. The face was prepossessing, 
and he conjectured she might in life have been 
called handsome. 

He made a rapid survey of the room. At his 
right and in front of the mantel-piece was a long, 
narrow table, with deep drawers in it and the top 
of which was covered with blue felt. Against the 
wall, on all sides, were fitted drawers surmounted 
by shelves, filled with goods. Over the windows 
and the two doors opening into the hall, curtains 
were drawn closely. 

Immediately at his left hand, within his reach, 
was a small round table. On it were two articles. 
Barely conscious of his act, he stretched forth his 
hand and took them up. One was a ring, the other 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 17 

a small, old-fashioned oval portrait in a narrow gilt 
frame. 

He was astonished — overwhelmed. 

The portrait was a picture of his father, taken at 
least twenty years before his death. He could not 
trust his senses. Was his imagination affected by 
the horror of the scene and playing him tricks ? He 
looked at it again. There could be no mistake. 
He examined the ring. He recognized this too. 
He had seen it in his boyhood days, a hundred 
times, on his father’s finger. 

Confused and overwhelmed, and under an im- 
pulse he could not analyze, he slipped them both 
into his pocket. 

There was a new movement in the hall and new 
steps, which had in them the sound of authority. 

A voice said : 

“ We can’t open that door.” 

“Then we’ll break it down,” said a stern one in 
reply. 

Aroused, Dorison undertook to step over the 
prostrate body at his feet, intending to open the 
door. As he did so he saw a piece of paper in the 
hand of the murdered girl. Moved by an uncon- 
trollable impulse, and without reason governing 
him, he bent down quickly and gently disengaged 
it. Hastening now to the door, as he was about to 
push back the curtain, he perceived upon the floor 
a large piece which he picked up and pocketed 
under the same singular impulse. 

Drawing the bolts, he opened the door, just as 


1 8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

two policemen placed their shoulders against it to 
burst it open. They fell upon him, and without his 
assistance would have fallen to the floor. 

A man in citizen’s clothes pushed his way 
between the two policemen and hastily swept the 
room with his keen eyes. Observing the body on 
the floor, he turned to the officers and said : 

“ Guard that door. Let no one in or out.” 

Walking over to where the body lay, he closely 
examined it and the surroundings. Then he came 
back to Dorison and demanded : 

“ What were you doing here ? ” 

“ Who are you ? ” demanded Dorison in return. 

“An officer of the law. Answer my question.” 

“ I entered from the rear, while the others were 
trying to force an entrance from the front.” 

The officer, who was the most celebrated detec- 
tive of his day, bent a piercing look upon Dorison, 
who, however, did not flinch from the scrutiny. 

“ We’ll see about that. Dolan,” he said, turn- 
ing to an officer in uniform, “ arrest this man.” 

“ I shall not attempt to prevent you from arrest- 
ing me,” said Dorison quietly, but firmly. “ But 
you must make no mistakes, for I shall not forgive 
them.” 

This calmness and self-possession made an 
impression on the officer. 

“ How is it that you were here alone?” he asked. 

“ I have told you. After the alarm was raised, 
all who were in the saloon below ran up to this 
door except myself. I asked the proprietor if there 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY \ 19 

was not a rear entrance, and being told there was, 
came up that way and made an easy entrance.” 

“ Yaw. Das iss so;” remarked the proprietor of 
the saloon, from the door. “ Dey vos all gone owit 
an’ he ask me. I say go oop de back stairs.” 

“ He was drinking in your saloon then ? ” 

“ Yaw. He drink ein glass wine and smoke ein 
cigar, and talk mit old Mr. Nettleman all de night.” 

“ The gentleman sat with the rest of us, Cap- 
tain,” said another voice from the hall. “ When 
the man cried out that blood was dropping on his 
cards, the gentleman jumped on the table to see 
where it was coming from.” 

“ I see,” said the Captain, in an altered tone, and 
turning to Dorison said : “ It was imprudent of 

you to attempt an entrance before the officers were, 
called.” 

“ Perhaps,” returned Dorison, with a sober smile. 
“ In such emergencies, however, men are rarely 
prudent. The prudent thing for me to do was to 
walk away entirely. As it is, I presume I have 
made a witness of myself for the coroner's inquest.” 

This was so true that the detective smiled and 
regarded him with more favor. 

“ What is your name i ” he asked. 

Dorison hesitated. He had registered himself at 
a neighboring hotel under the name he had borne 
since he left New York eight years before — James 
Dudley. He knew the next question would be his 
address, and if he were to give his proper name an 
examination of the register would discover the dis- 


20 THE man with a thumb . 

crepancy, with a resulting suspicion. If, on the 
contrary, he were to give his assumed name, he 
would, if application were made to Mr. Nettleman, 
since he had not given his assumed name to that 
gentleman, be at a disadvantage in that quarter. 
He perceived his dilemma without seeing his proper 
course. 

His hesitancy aroused the suspicion of the detec- 
tive. With increased sternness the demand was 
repeated. 

Under the belief that less trouble would result 
from using his registered name, he replied : 

“James Dudley. I come from Dubuque, Iowa. 
I am registered at the Grand Central. I arrived 
in town at seven this morning. I have not been in 
New York for eight years before.” 

“Why did you hesitate in answering?” 

“ Because I vainly thought by concealment of 
my name I might escape the annoyance of being a 
witness, but a moment’s reflection showed me the 
absurdity of the idea.” 

This was promptly said, but frank and ingenuous 
as the reply seemed to those who heard it, the detec- 
tive, looking into Dorison’s eyes, saw something 
there which did not satisfy him. 

“ Do you know this Mr. Nettleman ? ” 

“ I have known about him all my life — since boy- 
hood.” 

“ Does he know you ? ” 

« Y e* ” 

At this moment two men in citizen’s clothes, who 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 


21 


were admitted by the uniformed officers, entered 
and took up their stations respectfully behind the 
detective. 

“ What did you see when you entered ? ” asked 
the detective, after a long and keen examination of 
Dorison’s face. 

“ That,” replied the young man, pointing to the 
body on the floor. “ I had but just entered when 
you came.” 

The detective did not permit his eyes to follow 
the pointed finger of Dorison, but still continued 
his stern and searching examination, while Dorison 
fully appreciated that he had become an object of 
suspicion. 

There was a slight diversion at the door. A man 
of average height, inclined to be stout, perhaps 
sixty, with shaven face, whose only striking feature 
was a pair of eyes, small, dark, keen, active and 
restless, who had been standing without the door, 
pushed his way in. The officers guarding the door 
made a motion as if to stop him, but, upon an 
almost imperceptible nod from the Captain, per- 
mitted him to enter. 

The new-comer crossed to the table covered with 
blue felt, his hands in his vest-pockets, and leaning 
against the end furthest from the body, sent his 
eyes into every part of the room with rapid darts, 
finally fixing them on Dorison, without abandoning 
the motionless attitude he had assumed on entering. 

The detective began a systematic inspection of 
the body, the room, the entrances thereto. He 


22 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


took the names of all present and those in the 
saloon when the drop of blood was discovered. He 
closely questioned the proprietor. The only fact 
he elicited was that two weeks previously the rooms 
had been rented by a woman, who announced that 
she would conduct a costumer’s business, and that 
the saloon proprietor had never seen but one person 
he knew to be connected with the business, and 
that an old woman, and she but once. Brought in 
to examine the body, he declared he had never 
seen the woman in life, and did not know who she 
was or where she came from. 

The detective turned to Dorison again : 

“ When you ascended those back stairs, was the 
door at the top open or shut ? ” 

“ Shut.” 

“ Did you try the door leading from the veranda 
to the hall ? ” 

“ I did, and found it locked.” 

“ How did you enter ? ” 

“ By the window, next the door.” 

“ Was the sash raised as it is now ? ” 

“ No ; I threw it up.” 

“ It was not fastened then ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ How did you enter this room ? ” 

‘‘Through those sliding doors.” 

“ Were they open as now ? ” 

“ No, I threw them back.” 

“ Was there a light in the back room ? ” 

“ Yes ; just as there is now.” 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 23 

Turning to one of the men in citizen’s clothes, at 
his back, the Captain said : 

“ Jones, go into that yard and see if it is possi- 
ble for a man to make his escape over the fence 
and reach the street.” 

“ It would be possible for a man to descend 
those back stairs, enter the saloon below from the 
rear, and so gain the street,” said the old man with 
his hands in his vest-pockets, without moving. 

The detective looked at him sharply and replied : 

“ That is true.” 

“ He even might have sat down and drank beer 
afterwards and been in the saloon when the blood 
was discovered.” 

“ That also might be true,” returned the detec- 
tive. 

“ The proprietor ought to know whether he 
served a customer whom he did not notice enter 
the front door.” 

“ Again that may be so ; I’ll inquire.” 

“ Also,” continued the old man, “ if you are 
speculating, your man might have entered the 
saloon and slipped out to gain this room by the 
rear as this young man did, and slipped back again 
after he did the job.” 

“ Ah,” said the detective, turning a look of ap- 
parent renewed interest upon Dorison. He took 
the proprietor aside and questioned him on the 
points raised by the old man. The German was 
quite certain Dorison had never stirred from the 
chair he seated himself in when he first entered, 


24 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


until the blood was discovered ; he was in full 
sight and could not have moved without his knowl- 
edge ; besides, he had talked all the time with Mr. 
Nettleman, a fact that attracted his attention, since, 
though the old gentleman came there nightly, he 
rarely talked with any one. As to the possibilities 
suggested by the old man with regard to others, he 
could not speak so positively, though he did not 
think that anything like that suggested by the old 
man had occurred, because the saloon had not 
been so full that he could not take cognizance of 
every one in the place. When asked to look over 
the throng in the hall to see if all were there who 
were in the saloon when the blood was discovered, 
he said after examination that while there were 
some in the hall who were not in the saloon, there 
was one who was in the saloon who had stood by 
him in the hall when he was called in to see if he 
could recognize the body, who was not there then. 
He was a stranger who had come in early and 
drank brandy. He could not describe him, save 
that he was not an old man, was not tall, and had 
brown hair and mustache. 

“ That undoubtedly is the man I want,” said the 
detective. 

Sending Dorison to the Headquarters in charge 
of one of the policemen, in order that a statement 
as to himself and the events of the night might be 
taken, and telling the officer to put a man on to 
shadow Dorison after he left Headquarters, the 
officer busied himself with completing his exami- 


A MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY. 


25 


nation of the premises. Finally, leaving an officer 
in charge, he went away, accompanied by the 
remaining officer in plain clothes. 

“ This night has not brought forth much,” he said, 
“ but I suppose we can find out from the woman 
who rented the rooms who the girl is. We must 
hunt her up the first thing to-morrow morning. 
That must be your job. ” 

“Go to the agent who rented the rooms, I 
suppose ? ” 

“Yes ; that’s the quickest way.” 

“ Do you think that fellow Dudley is mixed up 
in it?” 

“ He ? No, but he’s concealing something. I 
suspect he does not want to be too closely ques- 
tioned about himself. But he hasn’t anything to do 
with this case.” 

“ The old man turned up again prompt. ” 

“ Yes, ” replied the Captain. “ He seems to have 
the scent of a buzzard for a dead body. Strange 
fancy, isn’t it ? I once knew a fellow who had a 
fancy for going to every funeral he could hear of, 
whether he knew the people or not. This old fel- 
low is a sharp old duck and has some excellent 
ideas. But who he is I can’t tell.” 


CHAPTER III. 

“ HOW FORTUNE PLIES HER SPORTS.” 

J OHN DORISON awoke the next morning 
betimes, with an uneasy sense of having passed 
through a nightmare. It was some moments before 
he could recall the events of the night previous. 
When he did, he leaped quickly from his bed, for 
by them was also recalled a resolution to seek Mr. 
Nettleman as early as possible, to inform him of the 
assumed name he had given the police the night 
previous, and to beg him to assist him in preserving 
his incognito. 

Dorison did not fear implication in the murder, 
though he knew that the detective regarded him 
with more or less suspicion. What he did fear, 
however, was that if his proper name were known 
it would awaken recollection of the events attend- 
ing and the consequences of his father’s unfinished 
letter. The police at that time had been employed 
to search for the crime his father’s letter had 
charged him with. 

Therefore he hastily dressed, the while he cursed 
the impulse that had induced him to return to the 
city of his birth, where everything served to remind 
him of his undeserved disgrace. Absently thrust- 
ing his hand in his pocket, he came upon the 
26 


* 'HO W FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS.” 2 7 

portrait and ring he had obtained the night previ- 
ous. 

It was with a shock of surprise that he drew 
them out, for he had forgotten them. 

Taking them to the window he gave them a 
careful examination. 

There could be no mistake. 

The portrait was that of his father, and the ring 
was too familiar for him to make an error concern- 
ing it. But how came they in the room where he 
had found them ? Who was the young woman in 
whose possession they apparently were ? If, as he 
supposed, she was no more than twenty-five, she 









ItZa. 

ctccott*, /ZL A 


could have been only 
about seventeen when 
his father died. The 
portrait was taken 
when she was about 
five. It was unex- 
plainable. Or, could 
Madame Delamour be 
a dealer in old relics 
and jewelry ? It was 
worth examining into. 
But how ? 


He could not stir 
without showing how 
he had obtained pos- 
session of the articles. 


He returned them 
to his pocket, and in 


2 8 « ‘HO W FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. ’* 

doing so encountered the slips of paper he had 
found at the same time. 

Both were written upon, and he was startled by 
the similarity of the writing to that of his father. 
He endeavored to obtain sense of what was writ- 
ten. The pieces were evidently torn from letters. 
The smaller one, that which he had taken from 
the girl’s fingers, conveyed no intelligence to him. 

Dorison puzzled long over this, but could make 
nothing of it. He examined the other slip. It was 
in the same hand. 

<SUo 

^cTlo 


c' as- 

C<~c^o <a 

^Cc/l */tPUc yCct. <0 <£<* ' LF+erm- ZLtZjeF* 

Jstr-crO c*t*o iff uJumsC 

> Oueoco C-etJZc/b Q^zPNt^. / 

f4> 2 eJxMrjAe) (Tu/.^ (Lc s^-£-*** 

‘fee*' x**, /toe o^si*r>4~c*f 
-c£o*s**~c ‘ 


* xrr ^>o<7 /i*C£. Q -Cc^ejCj2- &A. 

C< c ^ r r 


uM. 

^X. /taT ■ mr-t. / ^ 


“HOW FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. ” 29 

A little more intelligence perhaps was to be 
gained. Some one named Harold had evidently 
been doing wrong and had caused some one to pay 
out money to repair the consequences of the wrong- 
doing. The .more he studied the two scraps of 
paper, the more he became convinced that the 
writing was that of his father. 

He was greatly agitated and much confused. 
Having exhausted speculation, he descended to 
the breakfast-room, but with no appetite, for the 
emotions by which he was possessed robbed him of 
all relish for food. He contented himself with a cup 
of coffee. Arising from the table he saw it was 
after eight o’clock, and thinking it would be fully 
nine before he could reach Mr. Nettleman’s office, 
he determined to set out at once. 

He did not notice. that as he set foot upon the 
pavement, a slight, undersized man followed him out 
of the hotel, nor that he entered the same stage 
he did, nor that, on reaching Wall Street, this 
individual followed close after him and had busi- 
ness in precisely the same direction. He was 
too much preoccupied in the events through which 
he had just passed to give heed to matters about 
him. 

As it was, the slight, undersized individual fol- 
lowed him directly to the door of the building in 
which were Mr. Nettleman’s offices, even ascending 
the stairs to the second floor where they were 
situated. 

The old gentleman was at his desk, intently 


3 d The MAH WITH A THUMB. 

reading the morning paper. As Dorison entered, he 
looked up and cried out with animation: 

“ Ah, is that you ? Do you know that a murder 
was committed last night in the very house where 
we met ? ” 

“ Yes/’ replied Dorison, sitting down beside the 
desk. “ I was still there when it was discovered. 
Indeed I may claim the honor, if honor it be, of 
discovering it.” 

“ Oh,” said the old gentleman, highly interested. 
“ Were you the one who first saw the drop of 
blood ? ” 

“ Not that, but I was the one who forced my 
way through the rear, found the body, and unfast- 
ened the door for the police.” 

“ But the paper says it was a man named Dud- 
ley — James Dudley. That is as near as the papers 
get to it.” 

“ The papers are right on the information given 
them,” said Dorison. “ It is about that very name 
I have hurried so early to see you this morning. 
You will recollect I told you that when I left the city 
eight years ago, I did so under an assumed name. 
That was the name I used, and under it I registered 
when I returned to town yesterday morning.” 

The old gentleman recollected well, and Dorison 
hastily recounted his fears that the police would 
discover the assumed name through Mr. Nettleman 
if not warned in time, and giving his reasons for 
desiring to preserve his incognito , he begged the old 
gentleman to assist him in preserving it. 


“ HOW FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. ” 3 1 

At this point they were interrupted by a caller. 
Handing the morning paper to Dorison, the old 
gentleman sat himself down with the stranger in 
a remote corner of the room, where he held a 
whispered conversation. 

After the stranger departed, Mr. Nettleman re- 
turned to Dorison, his fine old face wreathed in 
smiles. 

“ Not a moment too soon. That was an agent 
of the police come to inquire about you, just as you 
had anticipated. Oh, I was discreet ! Do not be 
alarmed. I vouched for you. I assured him your 
name was Dudley, that you had arrived in New 
York yesterday morning after an eight years’ 
absence, and I told him the one he was inquiring 
about was you sitting there. I threw the mantle of 
my friendship and protection about you.” 

Well pleased that he had moved so promptly, and 
congratulating himself over his narrow escape, Dori- 
son attempted to lead their conversation back to 
the subject of the evening previous, but there was 
another interruption. 

A short, stout, elderly man entered, whom Dori- 
son at once recognized as the old man who had 
pushed his way into the room of the murder, with 
both hands in his vest-pockets, the night previous, 
and who had done not a little toward directing 
suspicion toward himself. 

As he entered, Mr. Nettleman cried out jocularly : 

“ Hello, Simon the Cellarer ! Come here and sit.” 

The old man crossed the room with a contorted 


32 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


face which required the aid of imagination to recog- 
nize as a smile. 

As he sat down, Mr. Nettleman in high spirits 
said, turning to Dorison : 

“ My young sir, I want you to know this man. 
He is my cousin, who was brought up with me, 
Simon Cathcart. I call him Simon the Cellarer. 
Did you ever hear of Vidocq ? There he is. Only 
a greater one. He’s a ferret — a ferret, sir.” 

The old gentleman leaned back in his chair greatly ■ 
amused over his own wit and the perplexed face of 
Dorison. 

'All the time the sharp little eyes of the new-comer 
were keenly scrutinizing Dorison. 

“ My cousin,” he said slowly, “ is a very funny 
man. He thinks it very funny that I, who have 
spent my life as a detective in the West, having 
accumulated enough money to make me indepen- 
dent at least, should, having nothing in the world 
to do, follow from interest occasionally my old busi- 
ness. Well, I don’t object. I get even with him, 
for he has to look after my investments for the 
privilege of being funny at my expense. It was 
you,” he continued, breaking off suddenly into a 
new subject, “ who brought me here this morning.” 

“ I,” cried Dorison in surprise. 

“ Yes. When you were giving an account of your- 
self last night, Cousin Nettleman was mentioned 
as having talked with you, and I came down to see 
what he knew about you.” 

“ You don’t suppose me to be connected with 


“HOW FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TSP 33 

the murder, do you ? ” asked Dorison, amused by 
the directness of the old man. 

“ No. I know you are not. But, young man, you 
are not a good actor. Any one could see you were 
concealing something. The man who examined 
you saw it at once. You are an object of suspicion. 
You are shadowed now.” 

“Me? Shadowed? How do you know ? ” 

“ I do know it, and that is enough,” said the old 
man positively. 

“ Ah ! ” cried Mr. Nettleman, enthusiastically, 
“ this is the very man to help us. Simon, do you 
recollect the day we went down to Coney Island 
last summer, when I told you at dinner that strange 
thing about my old friend Dorison ? ” 

“ Perfectly well.” 

“ And how he was found dead with a letter writ- 
ten before him ? ” 

“ Yes, charging his only son with certain crimes.” 

“ The same. And you recollect I said I believed 
the son to be innocent ? ” 

“Yes. You said that the letter was to be ac- 
counted for on one of two grounds. Either Mr. 
Dorison was insane, or, that if he had been per- 
mitted to finish his letter it would have been found 
he did not charge his son with those things." 

“ Precisely.” 

“ And I told you that if you had stated correctly 
the words of that letter, the second ground fell and 
you’d have to stand on the first. And I further 
said that it would be a very pretty case to work up.” 


34 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ Precisely. Well, this young man is the son.” 

There was no expression on the old man’s face 
as he turned it upon Dorison, but his eyes showed 
a greater interest. 

“You gave the name of Dudley, last night?” 
he said. 

“ Yes,” replied Dorison. “That is what I was 
concealing. After my trouble, and when I fled 
the city, I changed my name.” 

“ I see.” 

“ Now,” said Mr. Nettleman, briskly and quite 
excitedly, “ I recognized him last night by a trick 
he has of handling his cigar precisely as his father 
did, besides his strong resemblance, so I sought 
him in conversation. More than that, I have 
promised to aid him in trying to get at the bottom 
of this mystery. Simon, will you assist ? ” 

“ Yes. It’s a pretty case, and it will please me 
to unravel it if I can.” 

Much agitated and not a little moved by the 
enthusiasm shown, as well as the conviction evinced 
by Mr. Nettleman that he was innocent, he failed 
to notice the manner in which Cathcart had taken 
the case to himself and quietly assumed that he 
only could unravel it. He got up from his chair 
to walk about to quiet himself. As he did so he 
thrust his hand in his pocket and felt the portrait 
and ring. 

He returned quickly. 

“ You say,” he said earnestly to Mr. Cathcart, 
“that you saw I was trying to conceal something 


“ HOW FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS. ” 35 

last night ; I was. Something had occurred between 
the time of my entering and my admittance of the 
police, which I did not speak of — which I was 
concealing.” 

“Ah ! ” said the ex-detective, interested at once. 

Dorison took the portrait from his pocket and 
handed it to Mr. Nettleman, saying : 

“ Do you know that picture ? ” 

“ Do I know it ? Why, of course I do. It is a 
picture of your father taken nearly thirty years ago. 
And a very good picture it is. Do I know it? 
Yes, indeed, and I can tell you who took it. Fred- 
ericks did. I was with your father when it was 
taken. He had two, one of which he gave to me. 
Where did you get this one ? ” 

Without replying, Dorison took from his pocket 
the seat ring. 

“ Do you recognize this ? ” 

Much astonished, Nettleman took the ring in his 
hand and examined it closely. 

“ I gave that ring to your father,” he said, “ the 
day before he was married. He gave a half a 
dozen of his young friends a dinner that day, and 
we each made him a little present. This was 
mine.” 

He handed it back. The ex-detective was an 
interested observer. 

Dorison now asked Mr. Nettleman whether he 
had any letters or documents in his father’s hand- 
writing. 

“ I ought to have plenty of his letters. Let me 


36 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

see. I did all his insurance for years. I gave up 
that business in 1861. Let me look at my ’60 box. 
You are younger than I am, take that step-ladder 
and hand me from that upper shelf the box with 
‘ i860 ’ on it.” 

Dorison did as he was requested and brought 
the box to the old man, who, opening it, ran over 
its contents and finally picked out a letter or 
two. 

Dorison handed him the two fragments of paper 
saying : 

“ Please compare the handwriting on those two 
fragments of paper with my father’s letters and tell 
me what you think.” 

The old gentleman, much excited, did so, and 
exclaimed : 

“ It is the same. There can be no doubt about 
it. There is no doubt about it.” 

Dorison, reaching out his hand, recovered the 
two fragments of paper, and turning to Mr. Cath- 
cart, said : 

“ Last night, as you know, I reached the room 
where the murder was committed first and alone. 
On a small, round table near the sliding doors I 
found this portrait and the ring. In the hand of 
the murdered girl was this smaller slip of paper, 
which I took from it. On the floor this larger slip. 
You can imagine my amazement on finding my 
father’s portrait and the ring I had so often as a 
boy seen on my father’s finger. Hardly knowing 
what I was doing I placed all in my, pocket, when 


“ HO IV FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TSP 3 7 


I knew the police were about to enter. This is 
what I was really concealing.” 

Mr. Nettleman looked with astonishment on the 
young man, almost helpless in surprise. 

“ A rather serious thing.to do,” said the ex-de- 
tective, “ but I think I would have done the same 
thing had I been in your place.” 

“ I have no regrets now,” replied Dorison. “ But 
I am puzzled to know how they got there, and 
what connection there could have been between 
that girl and my father.” 

The ex-detective got up, and placing his hand in 
his vest-pockets, walked up and down the room in 
a deep study, the others watching him as he walked. 

After a time he said t© Dorison : 

“ You want to find out the mystery of that unfin- 
ished letter, and to prove that the charges under 
which you have rested for eight years are un- 
founded?” 

“ I do, most earnestly.” 

“ I earnestly want to find out who committed 
that murder. I am impressed with the idea that in 
the discovery of the one will be found the revela- 
tion of the other. Well, then, let us join our forces 
and work — give ourselves up to it and do nothing 
else.” 

“There is an obstacle as far as I am concerned,” 
said Dorison. 

“ What ? ” 

“ I am without funds. I work for my living, and 
must return to, Dubuque to my position.” 


38 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ There is none,” cried Nettleman. “ I have 
plenty, and — ” 

The young man interrupted the impetuous prof- 
fer with an indignant gesture, saying : 

“ I am not an object of charity.” 

“ Will you take employment from me ? ” asked 
Cathcart calmly. Perceiving the young man to 
hesitate he added: “The pay will be $175 a 
month and expenses — employment to continue 
until the murder of last night is ferreted out.” 

The young man’s blood flushed into his face, 
and he inclined a glance full of wonder upon the 
one making to him so singular a proposition. 

“ I mean it,” added Cathcart. “ I had deter- 
mined to enter upon the case of the murder before 
I came here, and I foresee I shall need just such a 
man as you are. It will be hard work, and you 
will find me a hard taskmaster. I offer you small 
wages because there is the additional incentive in 
the possibility of the discovery of the secret that 
worries you. Come, is it a bargain ? ” 

“ Where is your profit?” asked Dorison. 

“ That is my affair,” sharply replied Cathcart, 
and seeing Dorison’s face darken, he added, 
“ There is plenty of profit for me, but I am not 
going to tell how or how much.” 

“ I will accept the employment,” said Dorison. 

“ I do not see why I am pushed aside,” said 
Nettleman reproachfully. “ Do you think I have 
no interest in this matter? I am comparatively 
rich, young mafl, and what I am, I owe to the 


“ HO W FOR TUNE PLIES HER SPOR TS." 39 

aid your father gave me over many years. That 
mystery which has clouded his name has been a 
sorrow to me these many years, and I’ve wanted to 
clear it up, without seeing my way clear to begin- 
ning until now. I can do but little more than 
contribute to the expenses of this search.” 

“ We will arrange that matter between us,” said 
Cathcart, before Dorison could interpose a word. 
Then, turning to the young man, he said : “ Do 
you now go straight to your hotel and stay there 
until I call upon you. Before you begin work I 
must find some means to get that shadow off your 
track.” 

With this he hurried off, leaving Dorison and 
Nettleman together, astonished at his abrupt de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER IV. 


“ THE HEARING EAR AND THE SEEING EYE.” 

C ATHCART made his way hastily to Pine Street, 
where he entered the office of a real estate 
agent, one who had charge of the Bleecker Street 
property. The agent was willing to tell all he 
knew, but it was not much. About two weeks pre- 
viously an elderly woman had called upon him to 
rent the floor where the murder had taken place. 
She had said that the necessity of earning an 
income had only recently made itself felt, and she 
wanted to open a costumer’s business, with which, 
in her younger days, she had been familiar ; that 
while she could, if it were required, present refer- 
ences, still, as she had for twenty-five years been 
regarded as independent in circumstances, she did 
not care to call upon them, and would therefore pay 
the rent quarterly in advance ; and this she thought 
was all the more necessary as she had determined 
to conduct her business under the name of Madame 
Delamour ; as a matter of fact her name was 
Farish — Mrs. Emma Farish — and her address was 
No. — , East Sixteenth Street. Who the young 
woman reported to have been killed in her place 
was, he did not know. 


40 


“ the hearing ear and seeing e ye. , l 4 1 

Upon this information, Cathcart determined to 
go directly to Mrs. Farish. 

On nearing the house, he saw a group of people 
gathered at the foot of the steps of the dwelling. 
A policeman stood at the foot of the steps, and 
another guarded the door at the top. 

“ They have brought the body of the girl to the 
house of Mrs. Farish,” he muttered to himself. 
“ She must have been nearer than a mere employee.” 

Reaching the foot of the steps, he said to the 
policeman : “ Who is in charge ? ” 

“ Captain Lawton.” 

He mounted the steps, and though the guardian 
of the door stopped him, he said, “ I am on this 
business and must see Captain Lawton.” 

He stepped through the door and encountered 
the Captain in the hall. 

“ They have brought the bftdy of the girl here 
then ? ” he said. 

The Captain stared at him, and without reply 
pointed to the door leading into the parlor. 

He entered. Accustomed as he was to such 
scenes, this one shocked him. 

On the floor lay the body of a gray-haired woman. 
As in the other case, she was weltering in her blood. 
The two had been killed in a similar manner. The 
Captain had followed him to the door, keenly obser- 
vant of him. Turning, he said : 

“ Mrs. Farish ? ” 

The Captain nodded in acquiescence. 

“ Madame Delamour ? ” he added. 


42 THE MAH WITH A THUMB . 

An expression of wonder passed over the detec- 
tive’s face, and bidding Cathcart follow him, he led 
the way upstairs and into the front room on the 
second floor, closing the door after him. 

“ Now then,” he said, “ what do you mean by 
that ? ” 

“ By what ? ” asked Cathcart in return. 

“ By calling Mrs. Farish, Madame Delamour.” 

“ Because Madame Delamour was Mrs. Farish.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” 

“ The same way you do.” 

“ But I don’t know it.” 

“ One of your men called on the agent who has 
charge of the Bleecker Street property, before I did, 
and was told the two were one, as I was. Madame 
Delamour, an assumed name to conduct the busi- 
ness of costuming under — real name, Farish ; ad- 
dress, this house.” * 

“ Ah ! I was called here before he could report. 
But who are you ? What are you interfering in 
this case for ? What interest have you in it ? ” 

“ What ! ” said Cathcart, with as near an expres- 
sion of surprise as he could achieve. “ I have lived 
for a year within gunshot of your headquarters, and 
you do not know who I am ? ” 

“ No, I don’t,” replied the Captain sternly. 

“ Not very flattering to my fame,” said Cathcart, 
as he extended a card to the other. “ That was 
my business card little more than a year ago.” 

The Captain read the card with an unmistakable 
start of surprise, while a slight flush overspread 


“ THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YET 43 


his face. A change took place in his manner at 
once. 

“ What ! ” he cried. “ You are the celebrated 
Cathcart ? ” 

The Captain might well have felt abashed. 
However little the average citizen might know of 
the fame of the insignificant appearing man who 
had just revealed himself, there was not a police 
officer, of the upper grade at least, who had not 
heard of the exploits of Cathcart, known to crim- 
inals as “ The Devil of the West,” of his deeds of 
courage in the hunting down and taking of des- 
peradoes in the most desperate parts of the Western 
country. His reputation for courage amounting to 
recklessness, for shrewdness unrivaled in its results, 
for ability in unraveling tangled knots, and for per- 
sistency when on the trail, equaled only by that of 
a sleuthhound, was known wherever policemen 
talked. 

“ I knew you had gone out of business,” said the 
Captain in a deferential manner, “but not that you 
had come to New York.” 

“Yes,” replied Cathcart, “I’ve made my pile, 
and as I’ve passed sixty I wanted to retire. They 
would not let me alone out there, so I came back 
to where I was born and where my relatives are.” 

“ I see ; are you on this business ?” 

“ No ! Perhaps ! That is, I am not employed. 
It is a nice case. If I touch it, it is for the fancy of 
the thing.” 

“ What do you know about it ?” 


44 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


“ Only what I have told you.” 

“ The two murders are connected ? ” 

“ No doubt of it ; killed the same way. When 
was this done ? ” 

“ Last night, some time between eight and eleven. 
The servant was permitted to go out at eight and 
returned at eleven, through the basement door, the 
key of which she carried. No lights were in the 
house, except in the hall, as was usual when she 
went to bed after the family. Supposing Mrs. 
Farish and her daughter, the only inmates of the 
house, had retired, she turned out the light and 
went to her room. This morning, descending the 
stairs at the usual hour, she made the discovery of 
the murder and gave the alarm.” 

“Where is the daughter ? ” 

“ She went away yesterday forenoon — where the 
girl does not know. She has not returned yet.” 

“ The young woman killed in Bleecker Street.” 

“The devil ! Yes. It must be.” 

“ Let us find that out first. Whose room is this ? ” 

“ Mrs. Farish’s.” 

“ Then we’ll look here first.” 

Cathcart’s eyes swept the room, taking in every- 
thing with one comprehensive glance. Between 
the windows was an old-fashioned bureau, and on 
either side of the glass were two ledges in the frame 
about midway of the glass. On each a photograph — 
one of an elderly woman, — the other of a younger 
one. Cathcart pounced upon them. Taking the 
one of the younger person he cried : 


“ THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YET 45 


“ There she is. You have questioned the ser- 
vant.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Let us have her up again, in view of the new 
phase this case has assumed.” 

Upon the summons of the Captain, the girl came 
into the room, worn, trembling, and frightened. 

* Whose picture is that ? ” asked Cathcart. 

“ Miss Anne’s,” replied the girl in a faltering 
voice. 

“ Who is Miss Anne ? Mrs. Farish’s daughter ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Cathcart handed the picture to the Captain, 
and showing the other to the girl, asked whose that 
was. 

“ Mrs. Farish,” replied the girl. 

“ The mother of Miss Anne ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Madame Delamour ? ” 

“ Sir,” said the girl, wonderingly. Cathcart 
neither repeated nor explained the question, but 
handed this photograph to the Captain. Then bid- 
ding the girl to be seated, he in a kindly tone began 
to question her. He induced her to tell of her dis- 
covery of the murder, and without interference per- 
mitted her to exhaust her story of the part she had 
played. 

“ When did Miss Anne leave the house ? ” he 
asked, when he had finished. 

“ After breakfast yesterday morning.” 

“ Was that her usual habit ? ” 


4 6 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


“ She’s gone away after breakfast for a week, 
coming home at six.” 

“ Did Mrs. Farish remain at home during this 
week ?” 

“ No, sir, she would go out later and come back 
earlier.” 

“ Were Mrs. Farish and her daughter in the 
habit of being out a good deal ? ” 

“ No, sir, not much. About three weeks ago they 
began to be out a good deal, but not regular until 
a week ago.” 

“ Did Mrs. Farish have any business ? ” 

“What?” asked the girl, unable to understand. 

“ Did Mrs. Farish have to earn money ? ” 

“ No, sir ; she owned this house and had money 
in the bank.” 

“ How long have you lived with her ? ” 

“ Going on three years.” 

“ Did Mrs. Farish have plenty of visitors — com- 
pany, you know ? ” 

“ No, sir. Very few. Sometimes a neighbor 
would call in.” 

“ Didn’t she have any relatives to come and see 
her ? ” 

“ She hadn’t any. I’ve heard say she hadn’t but 
one, and he lived out West.” 

“ Who was he ? ” 

“ She didn’t say. Once in a long time a young 
man would come to the house.” 

“Who was he?” 

“ I don’t know.” 


“ THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YET 47 

“ Didn’t you ever hear anything about him ? ” 

“ No, sir.” 

“ What did he look like ? ” 

“ I hardly know. They always seemed to know 
when he was coming, and Miss Anne watched 
for him and let him in herself. They always took 
him in the parlor and shut the door. When he 
went away Miss Anne always looked as if she’d 
bin cryin’ and Mrs. Farish was down like. Once 
I heard Miss Anne say, “ He’s got no mercy ; he’s 
all selfishness ; he’d take all you’ve got and leave 
nothing.” 

“ What did Mrs. Farish say ?” 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Can’t you tell me what this young man looked 
like ? ” 

“ I never saw his face but once, and then just a 
glimpse. I was coming up the basement stairs 
when he was let in, and saw him go into the parlor. 
He was tall and slim, and had brown hair.” 

11 How often did he come here? ” 

“ About once in three months.” 

“ How long did he stay when he came ? ” 

“ Sometimes an hour ; sometimes longer ; once 
he stayed all afternoon. I laid a plate for him for 
supper, but he did not stay. Just before he went 
aw.ay he was angry and talked loud.” 

“ Was that the only time you heard him angry ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Did Mrs. Farish and her daughter go out visit- 
ing?” 


4 $ THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

4< I never knew them do so. They lived by 
themselves.” 

“ Did they go to church ? ” 

“ Every Sunday, twice a day, down here to the 
church on the corner. The minister, Mr. Carman, 
used to come once in a while to see them.” 

“Was Mrs. Farish pretty comfortable about 
money ? ” 

“ She seemed to be, sir.” 

All this time the Captain had been a close 
listener, not interfering in the examination. Cath- 
card having finished, he dismissed the girl. 

“ What do you make of it ? ” asked the Captain. 

“ Nothing. The case is as dark as night. That 
young man is worth looking after.” 

“ Yes. I had got that point out of the girl 
before. You got two additional ones — that he 
was angry the day he stayed so long ; and that 
the daughter cried and the mother was sad when- 
ever he came. I have searched the house system- 
atically from top to bottom and found nothing to 
throw any light on the deed or the people, — no let- 
ters or documents in the house.” 

“ The place in Bleecker Street wants a thorough 
search now.” 

“ It will have it to-day.” 

“ If that young man is all right, he’ll turn up of 
his own accord ; if crooked, he wont.” 

“ His failure to turn up will make the more rea- 
son for looking for him. But how and where to 
begin the search for him ? ” 


“ THE HEARING EAR AND SEEING E YE." 49 

To this the old detective made no reply, but 
thrusting his hands in his vest-pockets, walked out 
of the room, and descending the stairs entered the 
parlor, where the body lay,, carefully noting every 
article in the room and their disposition. His 
keen eyes perceived something lying on the floor 
near and partially under the body. He beckoned 
to the Captain standing at the door and pointed to 
it. The officer, bending down, said : 

“ Ah, a glove — a man’s glove.” 

“ A clue,” said Cathcart. 


CHAPTER V. 


• “ LETS IN NEW LIGHT THROUGH CHINKS.” 

T HE Captain stretched forth his hand to pick up 
the glove, but Cathcart restrained him. Look- 
ing about the room he found a small straw fan. 
Carefully lifting the glove at the wrist, he skillfully 
thrust the fan under the glove so that it rested 
upon the fan without its form having been dis- 
turbed. 

“The hand of the man that will fit this glove is 
the hand of the man who did this deed,” said Cath- 
cart, straightening up and carrying the glove into 
the light to examine it. “ Criminals have been 
brought to justice from a clue less than this.” 

The Captain was deeply interested. 

“ The hand this glove fitted,” continued Cathcart, 
“ is not that of a working-man, yet one whose bones 
are naturally large, and whose knuckles and joints 
are prominent. See how large and prominent that 
second knuckle is. Moreover, the man who wore 
this glove is a nice dresser — careful about his ap- 
pearance and the fit of his clothes — a bit of a dandy. 
He either is or tries to be a gentleman. Nor does 
he spare cost in his clothes. You see the kid is of 
the best quality, but this' is the point — that glove 
was made only for the hand that wore it. See ! 


50 


“ LETS IN NEW LIGHT." 


5 


The peculiarity of the hand is the thumb. It is 
long and bent backwards at the end ; it is out of 
all proportion in its size and length to the fingers. 
It is almost a deformity. You might examine the 
•hands of all the men in the city and not find one 
like it. Yet see how perfectly the glove has fitted 
the hand — every finger exactly filled, the thumb 
also — not a wrinkle in the glove. That glove was 
not got by accident, nor picked out of a general 
stock in a store. One so chosen, if it fitted the 
thumb, would have been too large for the fingers ; 
if it fitted the fingers, the thumb couldn’t have 
gotten in. You wanted to know where to begin 
your search for the young man who called at stated 
intervals. There you are. Take care of that 
glove. Put a bell-glass over it ; it’s precious.” 

The Captain, either because he was much im- 
pressed by the old detective, or because he was too 
great for jealousy and was anxious for all the aid 
he could secure in a dark case, took the glove and 
the advice with good grace. 

Cathcart, bending over the body, saw something 
calling for greater attention, and crossing to the 
other side, kneeled down and narrowly examined 
the body. 

“ Robbery,” he muttered. “ Something has been 
torn from her breast, \either before or after she was 
murdered.” 

The Captain nodded : 

“I was waiting to see whether my conclusion 
would be yours,” he said. “ But mark you, she has 


52 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

money and jewels on her person. They have not 
been taken.” 

“Valuable papers perhaps,” said Cathcart. 

At this moment there were the sounds of many 
feet at the door. The officer passed the word that 
the coroner and his jury were come to view the body. 

The two detectives retired to a rear room, reach- 
ing which Cathcart turned suddenly upon the 
Captain : 

“ You have that man who first entered the 
Bleecker Street room shadowed ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“ There is something suspicious about him. I 
want to know who he is ? ” 

“ Do you connect him with the murder ? ” 

“ No ; yet he seemed to get into those rooms 
very quickly. There was a familiarity with the 
house about that.” 

“ It was all explained.” 

“ Yes, but — well, he had something to conceal.” 

“ He had. He gave you a false name.” 

The Captain wondered how this sharp old man 
had managed to learn so much in so short a time. 

“ Do you recollect the Dorison case of eight 
years ago ; ” asked Cathcart. 

“ I ought to,” replied the Captain. “ It was the 
very first important affair I was engaged on. It 
was a strange case and came to nothing.” 

“ That man is John Dorison — the son,” said Cath- 
cart, watching keenly the effect of his words. 


“ LETS IN NEW LIGHT." 


S3 


The Captain was evidently astonished ; he said : 

“ But he gave J;he name of Dudley last night ? ” 

“ That is the name he has been known by since he 
left the city eight years ago. He returned yester- 
day morning and revealed himself to one of his 
father’s old friends — old man Nettleman.” 

“ Yes ” interrupted the Captain, “ the man he 
talked with in the saloon,” 

“ The same.” 

“ But,” said the Captain, loth to give up a possi- 
ble clue, “ how do you account for his extreme 
familiarity with the house in Bleecker Street, and 
his going to that particular house on the first night 
of his return ? ” 

“ He was born there. Idle curiosity while out 
for fresh air took him to look at the house of his 
birth, since he was in the neighborhood.” 

“ True,” mused the Captain, “that was Dorison’s 
house. I had forgotten it.” 

“ Having given you this information concerning 
him, and standing ready to give you any more you 
may want, I ask you to take the shadow off.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ I have undertaken to discover the mystery of 
that unfinished letter.” 

“ You believe the son then, and not the father ? ” 

“ I believe the son is innocent of what appear to 
be charges against him in a letter death prevented 
the father from finishing.” 

“ It will be difficult to trace the matter after this 
lapse of time.” 


54 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ It Will.” 

“ Our people do not agree with your view of the 
case.” 

“ Possibly. Was anything ever found in the 
young man’s life to give color to the charge ? ” 

“ No ; that was the puzzler. But the charges 
were distinct and unequivocal. I will give you a 
copy of the report in the case.” 

“ Thanks ; that will be a help. But I want that 
shadow off. It will embarrass my work.” 

“ I will call him off at once, if you will be respon- 
sible for your man’s appearance when wanted.” 

“ I will be. In the mean time treat my commu- 
nication — that is, as to the man’s identity — as con- 
fidential.” 

“ It will be so treated. But you had better help 
us in this matter.” 

“ No. You are competent enough.” 

“ It is a case dark enough to stagger the most 
competent.” 

The bustle in the adjoining room indicated that 
the coroner and his jury had completed their 
investigation of the scene of the murder, and were 
departing. The two detectives left the room they 
had retired to, and the Captain accompanied Cath- 
cart to the door. As they stood on the top step, 
the Captain said : 

“ Mr. Cathcart, I have a foreboding of failure in 
this affair. I wish I could persuade you to work 
with us.” 

The old detective looked down upon the throng 
for a moment or two, and replied : 


“ LETS IN NEIV LIGHT: 


55 


“ 1 may work on the case. Its very difficulties 
attract me. But I cannot work with any one. I 
have had assistants, obedient to my orders, never 
associates, whose views I was compelled to con- 
sider. It will be better for us to work apart. We 
can meet from time to time and compare notes. I 
cannot work any other way.” 

The Captain shook hands warmly with the old 
man, saying that so much was better than nothing. 
Cathcart descended the steps with his hands in his 
vest-pockets. 

He sought the minister of the church attended 
by Mrs. Farish and her daughter, without delay. 
Presenting his request to see Mr. Carman upon an 
important matter, he was ushered into the parlor. 
Mr. Carman came to him promptly, and a single 
glance sufficed to show the old detective that the 
minister was much agitated. 

“ Sir,” he said, “ if your business can be delayed 
I would like it. I have but this moment learned 
that one of my parishioners has been foully mur- 
dered. It is my duty to at once visit the daughter, 
and offer her such consolation as I can.” 

“It is about that murder I have called,” replied 
Cathcart. “ Permit me to urge you to sit down. 
Indeed, permit me to urge you to prepare yourself 
against another shock.” 

The minister, impressed by the manner of the 
old detective, did as he was requested. 

“ Now that you are seated,” continued Cathcart, 
<l let me tell you that your visit can be of no use. 
There is no daughter to console.” 


56 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ I do not understand you,” wonderingly replied 
Mr. Carman. 

“ This is the shock you must brace up against. 
In another part of the city last night, the daughter 
was also murdered.” 

“ Oh, my merciful Father?” cried the minister. 
“ Who are you who brings such dreadful tidings?” 

“ I am a detective seeking the cause and the 
perpetrator of the double murder. The case is 
shrouded in darkness and no reason as yet appears 
for these deeds. But there was one, and in an 
inquiry into the lives and antecedents of these 
women we hope to discover it.” 

But the good old minister was more anxious to 
ask than to answer questions, and he poured forth 
a torrent of them. When his curiosity was satisfied 
the detective began. 

“ How long have you known these women ? ” 

“ Since I have been pastor of this church, now 
some twelve years. Both mother and daughter 
were enrolled members of the congregation when I 
came to it.” 

“ Did you know anything of their surroundings ?” 

“ No. I knew her as a widow, of a small prop- 
erty, amply sufficient for their modest life. They 
were much respected in the church.” 

“ Did you learn anything of their antecedents ? ” 

“ Why, no ; when I assumed charge, their places 
in the congregation were fixed, and I accepted them 
at the valuation placed upon them by the other 
members. They were unobtrusive people, reserved, 


" LETS IN NE IV LIGHT. 


57 


not seeking society, talking not at all of them- 
selves. I made regular 'pastoral calls upon them. 
They took little part in the social side of the 
church, but were not remiss in their duties.” 

“ Did they have any intimacies with any one in 
the church ? ” 

“ I can recall none that were noticeable.” 

“ Did not the young lady mingle with the young 
people ? ” 

“ She did when I first came, but when she was 
about twenty, say six years ago, she abruptly with- 
drew herself.” 

“ Can you recall anything within your knowledge 
which at any time seemed uncommon, or out of the 
way, mysterious, so to speak ? ” asked Cathcart. 

The minister thought a few moments. 

“ Well, sir,” he said at length. “ I have often 
said to my wife that Mrs. Farish gave me the im- 
pression of a woman with a history. To me, 
though others laughed at the idea, there was a sug- 
gestion of sadness under what was normally a 
bright, cheerful disposition. I do not know if I 
make myself plain. Under a sweet, equable tem- 
per, there was to me signs of a latent grief, settled 
to be sure, but the cause of constant sorrow. 
Shortly after I came here, I remarked this to her. 
She did not seem well pleased, but answered that 
in her- young days she had passed through a period 
of deep sorrow, and she supposed it had left its 
impressions upon her. On another occasion when 
Mrs. Farish was calling at the parsonage, my wife, 


58 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

referring to a case just then occupying a great deal 
of space in the public press, bore down heavily on 
the woman involved, when Mrs. Farish, much 
agitated and evincing an impatience foreign to her, 
cried out to my wife to be merciful. ‘ There are 
lives,’ she said, ‘ that God alone can see the inno- 
cence of, but which a censorious world would pro- 
nounce evil?’ Then she added these singular 
words, addressing my wife : ‘ ‘Judge not, lest ye 

be judged.’ Your condemnation of this poor 
woman rings in my ears as a condemnation of 
myself.’ My wife and I often talked of this inci- 
dent, but could make nothing of it. Again, eight 
years ago, I called at her house and found her in 
great distress, and though I endeavored to console 
her, she would say nothing as to its cause. At 
that time she put on mourning, which she wore 
ever after, and it was at that time that the daughter 
withdrew from association with the young people. 
This is all I can recollect, I think. — Stop, there is 
one more incident, trivial perhaps, but I will tell it. 
One day about three years ago J had been from 
home in attendance upon a funeral, and returning 
was told that Mrs. Farish had been awaiting me in 
the study a long time. Going to her I found her 
in great trouble. She said, however, that though 
she had come for advice upon a matter giving her 
great pain, she had reflected while waiting and had 
reached the conclusion that it were better for all 
concerned to say nothing ; that she would bear 
this new trouble as she had borne other troubles all 
her life, alone ; and she went away.” 


“ Lets in new light: 


59 


The old detective had listened most intently, never 
interposing a word, gesture, or expression, though 
his keen bright eyes gave heed to everything. 

“Of what did her family consist all these years?” 
he asked. 

“Herself and daughter. I once heard her refer 
to the boyhood of a son. But from her speech I 
presumed he had died young.” 

Cathcart asked and received the names and 
addresses of some of the older members of the church, 
whom he next sought in inquiry. He learned little 
from them, for they could give him even less than 
Mr. Carman. Two points, however, he obtained in 
addition. One old lady recollected that when Mrs. 
Farish first came among them she had a son, but 
that, he disappeared when about eighteen — her 
understanding being that he had gone to the care 
of a relative in another city. The daughter of 
another old member contributed the fact that during 
the past three years, she had seen Anne Farish walk- 
ing, on three diffierent occasions, in Union Square 
with a young man — the same young man. She had 
noted and remembered it, since it was the only time 
Anne had been know to be in the society of one of 
the other sex, and also from the fact that she seemed 
to be greatly troubled on each occasion, and further 
that the young man was most fashionably clad and 
had the air of being fast. 

The day was well spent when Cathcart finished 
these inquiries, and he now recollected he had 
neither lunched nor dined. He hurried to the 
Grand Central Hotel. 


CHAPTER VI. 


WEAVING A THEORY. 

D ORISON was wandering about the office of his 
hotel in an aimless manner, inexpressibly- 
bored by his compulsory inaction. When he saw 
Cathcart, his face lighted up, and he greeted the 
old man effusively. 

“How long am I to remain a prisoner here,” he 
asked. 

“No longer,” replied Cathcart. ‘‘The shadow 
has been removed and you are free to come and go 
at your will. Come and dine with me. I want to 
talk over the events of the day with you.” 

As much pleased as if he had been released from 
actual imprisonment, Dorison accompanied the old 
detective to a quiet restaurant in University Place, 
where they could secure themselves against inter- 
ruption. While they dined Carthcart detailed to 
the young man the occurrences of the day. Intensely 
interested, and shocked as he was over the second 
murder, Dorison could not but wonder at the cool 
matter-of-fact manner in which Cathcart recited 
the event of the death of Mrs. Farish. He evinced 
neither agitation nor unusual interest, evidently 
treating it in his mind as incidental to the search 
he had set out upon. The impression produced 
60 


WE A VING A THEOR Y. 


61 


upon Dorison was not an agreeable one, for the old 
man was apparently so heartless and indifferent, 
showing neither horror over the deed nor conscious- 
ness of its enormity. They seemed only to be puz- 
zles which he must work out. The while, however, 
Dorison admired the power of lucid statement pos- 
sessed by the old man. The recital consumed the 
time of the dinner. When the coffee and cigars 
were brought, Cathcart said: 

“Now I want to reason and reason aloud. If 
you discover a flaw in my argument put your finger 
upon it at once, else do not interrupt me. Now to 
begin: A woman named'Farish, who has a daughter, 
living in Sixteenth Street for twenty years in the 
same house, which she owns, having no occupation 
and subsisting on her money, suddenly changes her 
mode of life, and, under the assumed name of 
Madame Delamour, rents the parlor floor of a house 
in Bleecker Street and opens a costumer’s business. 

“ Inference : A change has taken place in her 
financial affairs, necessitating the earning of an 
income after twenty years of comparative indepen- 
dence. 

“The business is opened one day, and on the 
night of the next day the daughter is found dead, 
stabbed in the neck in such a manner as to sever 
the carotid artery. On the same night, in her own 
house in Sixteenth Street, Mrs. Farish alias Madame 
Delamour, is found dead, under the similar circum- 
stances — stabbed in such a manner as to sever the 
carotid artery. 


62 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ Inference : The two murders were committed 
by the same hand; the methods of taking life are 
the same; the murdered women bore the relation of 
mother and daughter. To suppose that these two, 
bearing to each other the relation they did, were 
killed by different persons for different reasons, is 
to admit the existence of a coincidence without 
parallel in the history of crime. 

“ Inference second : The murder was committed 
by a man who has some knowledge of anatomy and 
some surgical skill, as is argued by the precision 
with which these arteries were found and cut. 

“A young man, whose attention is attracted to 
the possibility of wrong-doing in the Bleecker Street 
house, forces his way into the room occupied as a 
costumer’s place, and finds in the fingers of the 
murdered girl a torn scrap of paper, and on the floor 
near by another torn scrap, both covered by writing 
in the same hand, the scraps suggesting that they 
were torn from letters wrested from the hands of 
the girl. The police discovered that the dress of 
Mrs. Farish is violently torn in the breast with all the 
appearance of something having been dragged from 
it. Valuables and money on the person are not taken. 

“Inference : The murderer desired to possess 
himself of certain documents or papers held by the 
murdered woman ; hence the motive of the crime. 

“This young man also discovers the portrait and 
ring of Reuben Dorison in the room, and determines 
the writing on the torn scraps of paper to be in 
the hand of Reuben Dorison. 


WE A VING A THEOR Y. 


6 3 


“Inference : In some way Reuben Dorison, dead 
eight years, was connected with the wqman Farish 
and her daughter. Query, how? Not at present 
clear or ascertainable. 

“Inquiry elicits these facts: The two women live 
quiet, regular and proper lives; are constant in 
attendance upon church and their duties; they have 
no intimate friends, few callers, and no social rela- 
tions ; at stated intervals, a young man, tall, slim, 
with brown hair, whose visits leave the mother sad 
and the daughter in tears, calls upon them ; by her 
own admission the mother in her younger days has 
passed through a period of great sorrow, sorrow so 
great as to influence her after life ; on two occasions 
she is known to be in deep distress — once eight 
years ago, when she refused to explain the cause, 
but immediately dresses in mourning, and the 
daughter withdraws from all association with young 
people; the other three years ago, when seeking her 
minister for advice, the mother thinks better of it 
and says she will meet this trouble as she has met her 
other troubles, alone. Reuben Dorison died eight 
years ago, coincidental with the appearance of Mrs. 
Farish in mourning. Inquiry also elicits that when 
the minister’s wife is, in the presence of Mrs. Farish, 
condemning a woman for irregularity of life, Mrs. 
Farish cries out in protest, saying that the con- 
demnation of the woman rings in her ears as a con- 
demnation of herself. 

“Inference : There was something — a fault, a 
misfortune, or a crime in the life of the mother, 


64 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


with which the caller at stated intervals, and pre- 
sumably Reuben Dorison, is connected. 

“ Inquiry also elicits the fact that the daughter, 
who has no association with young people, is seen 
on three different occasions walking in Union 
Square, evidently greatly troubled, with a young 
man, tall and slim, of fast appearance, dressed in 
extreme fashion. 

“ Inference : The caller at stated intervals and the 
walker in Union Square are one and the same. 

“ Near the body of the mother was found a man’s 
glove, the form of which shows it was worn by a man 
with a large hand, prominent knuckles and joints, 
whose thumb was disproportionately long. This 
glove was cut and made to fit only the hand that 
wore it, an indication that the wearer was a man 
exceedingly particular as to his personal appearance 
and nice as. to his apparel. 

“ Inference : First, as the walker in Union Square 
was noticeable because of his fine dress, and as the 
wearer of the glove was, as it indicates, careful as 
to his appearance, the wearer of the glove, the 
walker in Union Square, and the caller at stated 
intervals were one and the same. Second, as the 
glove was found close to the body of the mother 
after her death, and as one caller on the family 
was the incident of a month, this wearer of the 
glove was the murderer of the mother. Third, if 
of the mother, then of the daughter. 

“ One more point : Inasmuch as after the two 
women engaged in the costuming business it was 


WEA VING A THEOR V. 


65 


the habit of the mother to return home before the 
daughter, and the daughter to return at six, and 
as the servant left Mrs. Farish alone at eight, there 
is reason to believe that the daughter was mur- 
dered first and the mother after. 

“ Now, as to a theory : Mrs. Farish had been 
connected with some event, the secret of which she 
jealously guarded, in her early life, which was 
criminal. She had documents relating to this 
event, possession of which she shared with her 
daughter. These documents either implicated a 
young man who called upon her at stated intervals, 
or which, being in his hands, would prove of such 
value, that to possess them he could bring himself 
to commit murder. With these events Reuben 
Dorison is associated, since the only glimpse of 
any part of them we have obtained, shows his 
handwriting. The young man for years persecu- 
ted the twp women to obtain the papers, being 
always refused and placated with gifts of money to 
such an extent, that in time the independence of 
Mrs. Farish was so impaired that she was com- 
pelled to resume a business she had many years 
before been engaged in. He had become desperate 
in finding that he could neither obtain the docu- 
ments nor any more money, the latter fact being 
made clear to him when he learns that Mrs. Farish 
has gone into business. Believing these documents 
to be in the possession of the young woman, he 
visited the Bleecker Street apartment, and finding 
no other way to obtain them, murders her and 


66 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


seizes them. He finds, however, that he has not 
all, and he goes to the Sixteenth Street house to 
see the mother. He demands and is refused them. 
He takes them by force, and he now knows that Mrs. 
Farish will unerringly attribute the murder of the 
daughter to him. and as a matter of self-preserva- 
tion, he kills the mother. 

“ We have the motive for the deed. The crimi- 
nal is a tall, slim man, with brown hair, who 
dresses in extreme fashion, who is dissipated, and 
who can be recognized by a large hand, with 
prominent joints and knuckles, and whose thumb 
is so disproportionately large and long as to be 
almost a deformity. He is a surgeon or has 
studied surgery. To find that man is to find the 
murderer, and, in my judgment, is to find the secret 
of that unfinished letter of your father’s.” 

The old detective looked into the face of Dori- 
son for the first time since he had begun to reason. 
Upon it was expressed excitement and admiration. 
Dorison’s eyes burned brightly, his lips were 
parted, high color was in his cheeks, and he breathed 
heavily. Something of the fever of the chase was 
upon him. 

“It is wonderful! It is wonderful!’’ he breathed 
out, rather than articulated. ‘ ‘It js profound, subtle 
reasoning, and all from such meagre and insufficient 
facts. It is reasoned out to a conclusion.” 

“No,” said the old detective, “it is only the first 
theory, and may be utterly overturned by the first 
real, substantial fact hit upon.” 


WEAVING A THEORY. 67 

“I cannot believe it,” protested Dorison. ‘‘Your 
conclusions are too strong.” 

‘‘But my premises may be weak,” persisted Cath- 
cart. “ Don’t lean too heavily upon a theory. The 
value of one is only that it gives you a basis from 
which to work. The danger of a theory is that you 
will cling to it, refusing in its interest to recognize 
the plain facts under your nose. The difference 
between a shrewd detective and a dull one is this: the 
latter becomes a slave to his theory and it controls 
him ; the former treats it with suspicion and aban- 
dons it whenever facts justify such abandonment. 
But even working on the lines of an erroneous 
theory, you are more apt to hit upon the true facts 
that when you are working wild without plan or 
purpose. There is always some truth in every 
theory. The trouble with this theory of mine is 
that it is too natural and plausible. I always dis- 
trust that which seems natural in the beginning of a 
dark case.” 

Dorison was plainly disappointed and puzzled at 
the manner in which the old detective treated his 
own theory. He did not speak for some moments, 
and then he suddenly ejaculated : 

“If I had so little confidence in a theory that I 
had spent so much pain and labor in building up, 
I would not work on it.” 

‘‘Yes,” calmly replied the old detective. “That 
is just what an inexperienced man like you would 
do. But that is what neither you nor myself will. 


68 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


We will go to work on it, and your work will begin 
very soon.” 

Dorison looked up interested. 

“My plans,” continued Cathcart, “have been 
materially changed by the events of to-day, espec- 
ially as to your work. It is my belief that the owner 
of that glove is to be found in the places frequented 
by young men of fashion. And it is in those places 
I want you to look for him.” 

“That I presume I can do without especial 
shrewdness?” 

“I do not intend to give you my reasons for the 
plans I have formed. Reasons I always keep to 
myself. But, for reasons of my own, I want you to 
be informed upon the ways of the young men of the 
day and the young men themselves. To do this 
you must know them, associate with them, and to 
a certain extent be one of them. Hence, I want to 
set you on foot as soon as possible as a young man of 
fashion about town. Your business you are to keep 
closely to yourself ; never lisping it to any one, and 
you will not be required to do any work which wifi 
betray it. You have been a young man of fashion 
once; you can easily resume the rdle .” 

“I have no desire to do so now,” replied Dori- 
son, by no means pleased with the line marked out 
for him. 

“That may be, and is so, doubtless. But it is 
necessary. I will smooth your way for you. You 
shall have ostensible employment in a reputable 
house; you shall have the necessary credit at a 


WE A VING A THEOR Y. 


69 


fashionable tailor, and you shall have the introduc- 
tion to young men of fashion that will give you a 
start.” 

“But when all this is done, what am I to do?” 

“Continuously extend the circle of your acquaint- 
ance and become familiar with fashionable haunts of 
all kinds, and obtain invitations, if possible, --to visit 
people’s homes. In the mean time watch people’s 
hands. In short, so that you may not think you 
are upon a fool’s errand, I will tell you that I want 
you to be eyes and ears for me in places where I 
cannot go myself without arousing suspicion.” 

“You think the murderer will be detected in 
such circles.” 

“If not detected, facts and circumstances will 
be secured that will lead up to detection. I am 
digging deeply, for if my experience is worth any- 
thing we will not come to the end of this matter to- 
morrow nor for many days thereafter. You must 
change your quarters to-morrow. Look out for 
them — a place where a moderately fashionable man 
should live.” 

With these words the old detective arose and, 
taking his hat, led the way to the door of the restau- 
rant, where he said : 

“Go where you will to-night. I will see you 
early in the morning.” 

They parted with this. 


CHAPTER VII. 


SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 

W ITHIN a week after his conversation Dorison 
was in occupation of a comfortable suite of 
apartments in Twenty-ninth Street. 

Through the agency of old Mr.Nettleman he had 
gathered a stock of such fashionable clothing as he 
had not had since the days prior to his father’s 
death; he was in enjoyment of an income over and 
above his salary of two hundred dollars a month 
with which to support his pretensions, supplied by 
Mr. Nettleman. Also he was connected nominally 
with a mercantile house in the lower part of the city, 
and this also through Mr. Nettleman, who had taken 
a friend into his confidence, and given Dorison there- 
by a standing other than that of a mere idler of the 
town. And in addition he had brought the young 
man into pleasant relations with several young men, 
sons of his friends. 

All of this was in pursuance of the suggestions of' 
Cathcart, and though he did not inform Dorison as 
to his reasons, he did his cousin. The reasons 
were not so much that Dorison could aid in the 
capture of the murderer as that he saw that any 
explanation of Reuben Dorison’s strange letter was 
to be obtained in the circle in which he had moved. 


70 


SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 7 * 

And he hoped to edge the younger Dorison into it, 
without his identity being known. 

Cathcart had a theory as to Reuben Dorison’s 
connection with the Farish’s which he kept closely 
to himself. In what direction it tended may be 
imagined from this brief exchange with his cousin 
Nettleman one evening when they were together. 

“What was Reuben Dorison’s private life, Cousin 
Nettleman?” he asked suddenly. “Was he given to 
intrigues with women?” 

Mr. Nettleman was indignant and in arms at 
once. 

“No, sir,” he replied emphatically. “No purer 
man in his private life ever lived. Of that I am 
certain. His home life was perfectly happy.” 

“Are you saying that because you think you must 
be loyal to the memory of your dead friend, or 
because you believe it?” 

“I say it because it is true. From the moment 
he married his wife, he was a devoted husband and 
a pure man.” 

“His wife died how many years ago?” 

“She died the first year he moved into Twenty- 
third Street — in 1851.” 

“Ah, twenty-eight years ago.” 

Whatever he thought, he was exceedingly busy 
in these days, leaving Dorison much to himself. 
About two weeks after the young man had entered 
upon his second career as a man of fashion, as 
Cathcart called it, the old detective made his 
appearance at Dorison’s rooms. It was early in the 


7<2 THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 

morning, before the young man was out of bed. 
He pushed himself into the sleeping-room and sat 
himself upon the bed as he. talked. 

“I have found out who transferred by deed that 
house in Sixteenth Street to Mrs. Farish,” he said 
without preface. “After a search which carried 
me to Buffalo, I found that the man had been dead 
a year. I have made diligent search for Mr. Far- 
ish, and have not found a person who ever heard 
of him. I have, however, picked up a great many 
trifles which will in time, no doubt, be of value. I 
have been hoping to find a starting place for you.” 

“I thought you had abandoned me to my fate 
as a fashionable rounder,” said the young man 
lightly. 

“No,” replied Cathcart seriously. “But I want 
you to make a systematic study of hands.” 

“Of what,” said Dorison, perplexed by the seem- 
ing irrelevancy of the remark. 

“A study of the hands of the young men of your 
acquaintance. You must, as I have indicated 
before, look high and low for such a hand as I have 
described to you.” 

‘ ‘And finding such a hand arrest the body to which 
it is attached, I suppose?” 

“No; inform me. Find his name, occupation, 
and surroundings.” 

“Ah, an easy matter surely when you’ve caught 
your bird.” 

“Here,” continued the detective, taking out a 
well-filled wallet and extracting a paper from it, 


Setting up a man of fashion. 73 


“is a complete list of all places where they make 
gloves to order. You must visit each place and 
order gloves for yourself, and while doing so get up 
a talk on the peculiarity of hands that glove-makers 
meet with, and perhaps you may stumble upon the 
maker of the glove I have told you about.” 

“That ought to be easy.” 

“Now, don’t go too fast,” said Cathcart warn- 
ingly. “It is by no means as easy as you think — that 
is, to do it without arousing suspicion. People do 
not like detectives except in books, and if you give 
them reason to suspect you to be one, you will find 
the bars up against you. Again, you are liable to 
direct the attention of the police to yourself, and I 
particularly desire to avoid that. Now one word 
more, and I am off. I want you to meet me at Po- 
lice Headquarters at eleven precisely this morning. 
Not before that hour, because I don’t want those 
fellows to get at you as they will be sure to do; 
not after that hour, for I don’t want to wait a 
moment.” 

With this he was gone. Dorison consulted his 
watch and found he would have barely time to 
dress and breakfast. So he hurried into his bath. 

At eleven, as he turned into Mulberry Street 
from Bleecker, he saw Cathcart approaching from 
Houston. They met at the foot of the steps of the 
Police Headquarters. 

“One moment before we enter,” said Cathcart. 
“Answer no leading question except by evasion. I 
want you here to make a study of that glove. If 


74 


THE MAN tVITH A THUMB. 


you have the slightest aptitude for this business, 
from a close examination of the glove, you can gain 
an intelligent knowledge of the character of the 
hand you are to seek. And let me tell you there 
is as much character in a hand as in a face. Impress 
it on your memory, burn it in, and when you have 
fastened it on your mind, turn to me and say, ‘No, 
I never saw this glove. I do not recognize it.’ Do 
you understand?” 

Assuring the old man he did, Dorison followed 
him into the building and into the office of the 
detective we have twice met before in the course of 
our Narrative. The detective himself was seated 
in his office chair, his feet stretched out, his hands 
in his pockets, his chin on his breast, and his face 
wearing a gloomy, perplexed expression. 

As he perceived his visitor, he brightened up 
and rose to greet Cathcart. 

“Ah,” he said, ‘T am glad you have come. I 
was this moment desiring to see you. Have you 
anything new?” 

“I have something to say to you,” replied Cath- 
cart gravely. “But first I want my friend Dudley 
to see that glove we found.” 

The detective, who had not greeted Dorison x 
though he had recognized him, now addressed a salu- 
tation to him, and bending over his desk moved a 
newspaper revealing the glove under a glass, still on 
the little fan on which it had been placed. Cathcart 
took it, and, moving the glass, handed it to Dorison, 
who carried it to the light. He expended five min- 


SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 75 

utes in its examination. Turning, he handed it 
back to Cathcart with the words the old detective 
had bade him utter. 

“Another disappointment,” quietly remarked the 
old man as he turned to go. He was detained by 
the Captain. 

“I thought you had something to say to me,” he 
said. 

“Yes,” replied* Cathcart. “Excuse me, Mr. 
Dudley.” 

Taking this as an intimation to remove himself as 
far as possible, Dorison took a seat near the door. 
Cathcart and the Captain talked in whispers. 

“What is it,” asked the Captain. “What did you 
bring him here for?” 

“A bare chance,” replied Cathcart; “he talked 
to me of a man with a long thumb, and I brought 
him here to see if he could recognize it. He does 
not know the meaning of his visit.” 

The Captain closely examined the face of Cath- 
cart as he was thus glibly lying, but it was inscru- 
table. 

“Now what have you to tell me?” asked the 
Captain. 

“Only as to what I have been at work on. Noth- 
ing as to what I have found, for it is nothing. From 
her minister I have found there was some strange 
or wrong event in Mrs. Farish’s life, but what, I 
cannot even guess at. I have found out who deeded 
the house to her only to find him dead. In short, 
I have been looking into her antecedents without 


76 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


result. No one knows where she came from, or 
what she was prior to turning up in Sixteenth Street 
twenty years ago.” 

“Your experience is not unlike my own. You 
are discouraged then?” 

‘‘No; if I were at the beginning of my career, 
say thirty-five years ago, I should throw up my 
hands. As it is, I feel as the real search had only 
begun.” 

‘‘Oh,” said the Captain, with his peculiar smile. 
‘‘What is your plan?” 

‘‘To tramp around until I knock against some- 
thing that will give me a suggestion.” 

‘‘Well,” said the Captain, after a moment’s hesi- 
tation, ‘‘here is one thing. Mrs. Farish had a son, 
who was wild and unmanageable, and left home when 
he was eighteen to go into the West. He gave his 
mother much trouble.” 

‘‘Ah, where did you get that?” 

‘‘By accident. An old carpenter, who used to 
do odd jobs for Mrs. Farish, blew in here a day 
or two after the murder with that single bit of 
information.” 

‘‘Name and address,” demanded Cathcart, pulling 
out his memorandum book. The Captain gave it, 
and it was duly entered. 

‘‘It is not much,” said Cathcart, as he put up his 
book. ‘‘I had heard of the son, but the minister 
believed him dead, from the way his mother had 
referred to him. What else have you heard?” 

“Nothing,” returned the Captain ; “I have been 


SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 77 

traveling over the same ground yon have, and with 
a like result. But as a matter of fact I have not 
been able to devote my whole time to the case. A 
series of most skillful burglaries have been going on 
for some time, and we are unable to get trace of 
them. The Commissioners are making my life mis- 
erable, and I am nearly wild over it. They are skill- 
ful and audacious. They are hands new to New 
York. The methods they employ show that they 
are not the old cracksmen: And the old fellows 
do not know r them any better than we do. I have 
half the thieves in town looking for them from curi- 
osity.” 

“Ah,” said Cathcart, much interested. “What 
are the peculiarities of their work?” 

‘‘There is no picking of locks; no lifting of win- 
dows; all entrances are made through front doors 
to which they have keys ;. intimate acquaintance 
with the location of valuables and of the interior of 
the houses. They take money, jewelry, and small 
plate if it is silver, and nothing else. In three 
instances they have passed over negotiable securi- 
ties, refusing to take them.” 

“Accomplices from the inside?” 

“That was my first thought. But I have aban- 
doned it. Here are two strange things. They scat- 
ter their work. Night before last they entered a 
house in Sixty-third Street near Madison Avenue. 
Last night in Fifteenth Street near Sixth Avenue. 
And so it goes. Every house they enter has a sick 
person in it; it never fails.” 


78 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“Ah, ha!” said Cathcart, “There is your point. 
Follow that up. Those things don’t happen. Con- 
fine yourself to that point.’’ 

“I wish you would work with us in that murder 
affair.’’ 

“I will give you assistance. Devote yourself to 
these robberies. I will follow the murder up until 
I know something. You cannot divide yourself on 
two such important cases and succeed in either. If 
you want reports from me every morning I will give 
you something you can show as indicating your 
progress. Trust me.’’ 

The Captain wrung Cathcart’s hand. 

“That was the very proposition I was going to - 
make. You have removed half the load from my 
shoulders. If you want men send to me for them. 

I leave the case to you.’’ 

“Discreet and skillful shadows will be all I want.’’ 

“Send for them then any hour of the day or 
night.’’ 

They parted at the door. 

Dorison followed the old detective into the street, 
when he said: 

“You have those torn scraps of paper safe.” 

“Yes,’’ replied Dorison. 

“Hold fast to them. Put them in a safe place. 
The time may come when they will be of the utmost 
value. ’’ 

On the corner of Broadway and Bleecker Street, 
Cathcart halted and said : 

“My visit has turned out better than I could have 


SETTING UP A MAN OF FASHION. 79 


expected. The Captain has given the case into my 
hands. Now I’ve got it. It is a question of time 
only. No interference now by blunderers. I know 
the man and how to catch him with proof.” 

“You know the man?” said Dorison surprised. 
‘‘Yes, I know the man. That is to say — ” 

The old detective stopped suddenly and attentively 
regarded a man passing on the other side of the 
street. Without a word he slipped across, leaving 
Dorison so astounded, he could do nothing but 
stare after him as he nimbly followed the man .who 
had attracted his attention. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


AN ADVENTURE. 

** T HAVE seen politer gentlemen,” remarked 
1 Dorison to himself, when he recovered from 
his astonishment. He stood for a moment upon the 
corner. “Well,” he muttered, “he has given me 
instructions as to one piece of work, and I will go 
at it at once.” 

He took from his pocket the list of glove-makers 
given him by Cathcart. Discovering that one was 
not far away, he determined to begin there. As he 
walked up the street, he busied himself with prepar- 
ing a few tactical questions which should lead to a 
general discussion of glove-making, out of which 
might come some hints as to the wearer of the glove 
he had recently examined. 

Reaching Eighth Street he crossed to the other 
side of Broadway, on which the glove-maker was, but 
his steps were checked by an omnibus which stopped 
immediately in his way to permit a young girl to 
descend — a young girl perhaps of nineteen summers, 
whose bright, pretty face, surmounted by a wreath 
of golden curls, attracted his admiring attention. 
She turned to the sidewalk, to which he was cross- 
ing, without seeing a pair of horses rapidly driven 
down the street. 


80 


AN ADVENTURE. ' 81 

Before Dorison could sound a warning the girl 
was knocked down by one of the horses, and but 
for a mighty leap upon his part, which enabled him 
to reach her in time to drag her from under the 
wheels nearly upon her, she would have been run 
over. He lifted her to her feet quickly. Perceiv- 
ing she was either injured or fainting from fright, he 
bore her in his arms to the sidewalk, a policeman, 
who had run to the girl’s assistance, stopping the 
vehicles to make way for him. 

As he reached the curbstone with his burden, a 
young man stepped up to him and with no little 
insolence said : 

“I’ll relieve you of your charge,” attempting at 
the same time to take the girl. 

Dorison, from a rapid survey of the young man, 
was not impressed favorably, and said curtly: 

“I do not recognize your right.” 

‘Then I’ll make you,” angrily returned the young 
man. “Phis lady I know; I am her friend.” 

“Stand back now,” said the policeman, “your 
right will be recognized when the lady can tell who 
her friends are.” 

To Dorison: “Is she hurt? Carry her to that 
drug store,” pointing to one near by. 

At this moment the occupant of the carriage came 
hurrying up. 

“Is she injured?” he asked. “Bring her to this 
drug store. I am a physician.” 

“By ! Fassett,” cried the young man who had 

interfered, with an oath, and who was following, 


82 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“you manufacture your patients. You ought to 
have your neck broken for driving like that.” 

“Be quiet, Harry, for Heaven’s sake ! ” implored 
the physician. 

During this brief interchange Dorison, accom- 
panied by the policeman, who was assisting in bear- 
ing the young lady, had reached the drug store and 
placed her in a chair. 

The other two followed, and the physician, bend- 
ing over the girl, said : 

“It is a faint.” 

Calling for remedies, he soon restored the young 
lady to consciousness. 

Opening her eyes she looked about in a dazed 
manner for a moment, as if she could not collect 
her senses. 

“Where am I?” she asked, bewildered. “What 
has happened?” Recognizing the physician she 
said, “Oh, is it you, Doctor? How came I here?” 

“Are you injured, Miss Eustace? Tell me. It 
was I who knocked you down.” 

“Yes,” bitterly laughed the young man, “with 
his fine, fast span, he knocked you down.” 

The girl looked up, and Dorison was certain he 
caught an expression of dislike and contempt, as it 
flitted over her face during the moment her eyes 
rested upon the speaker. For the first time Dori- 
son seriously regarded the young man, and observed 
that his face bore the unmistakable evidence of 
rapidity of life, and that he was no stranger to the 
brandy bottle. Yet the face would have been called 


AN AD VENTURE. 


83 


handsome by most people ; the flush attributed by 
Dorison to alcohol, by many would have been taken 
as an evidence of youth and health ; and his air and 
manner called dashing and engaging. His fine 
clothes were extreme in cut and loud in colors. 
The sum of Dorison ’s rapid conclusions was that 
the man was a low-bred “cad.” 

The physician repeated his question. 

“No,” replied the young girl. “I am not hurt. 
But what does it all mean?” 

The policeman replied to her question : 

“It means that after you got out of the Fifth 
Avenue stage opposite here, you were knocked down 
by a team, and you’d ’a’ bin run over but for the 
spryness of this gentleman,” indicating Dorison 
with a nod, “who leaped forward, pulled you from 
under the wheels, and brought you to the sidewalk. ’ ’ 

The girl lifted her violet eyes to Dorison, with a 
most grateful expression, and blushing as she 
spoke, said simply : 

“ I thank you, sir.” 

“ I thank my good fortune I was so near as to 
be of service,” replied Dorison, a little embarrassed 
under such grateful eyes. 

“ None but the brave — ” sneered the young 
man. 

“ Be quiet,” said the policeman, so savagely 
the utterer of the sneer found it convenient to walk 
away a short distance. The physician began to 
question her as to possible injuries. 

To all inquiries the young lady made such 


8 4 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


replies as indicated no serious damage had been 
done, although she was evidently much shocked. 

“ I do not think the young lady has sustained 
any injuries beyond a few bruises,” said Dorison. 
“ She was struck by the shoulder of the horse near- 
est her. I am certain nothing else touched her, 
not even a horse’s hoof.” 

“ Then, ’’said the physician, “ I am thankful to 
be able to say that a slight stimulant is all that will 
be required to enable her to return home.” 

This was administered, and the dirt and dust 
having been brushed from her clothes, the physi- 
cian said : 

“I hope, Miss Eustace, you will permit me to 
make a slight reparation for my blundering care- 
lessness, by driving you home ? My excuse for 
rapid driving is that I was hastily summoned to a 
very sick man.” 

“ Then do not let me detain you another moment, 
Doctor,” hastily replied the young lady. “ I am 
wholly recovered, and I think I was silly to faint.” 

“ I will accompany Miss Eustace home,” said the 
young man, perceiving an opportunity and striving 
to utilize it. 

“No, sir, it is unnecessary,” replied the lady, 
with such coldness and haughtiness as to make a 
repetition of the proffer impossible. To the offi- 
cer she said, “ Will you do me the favor to call a 
cab.” To the physician, “ Doctor, you must go to 
your patient. I insist upon it. I will forgive you 
for knocking me down, if you will go at once, and 


AN ADVENTURE. 85 

I never will if you don’t. Go. I am not injured 
at all.” 

The doctor departed with apologies, as the offi- 
cer entered, having caught a cab at the door. 

The young lady, rising, turned to Dorison and 
with color again flushing her cheeks said : 

“ Sir, if I have not expressed gratitude to you 
for your service, it is not because I am insensible 
of its value. Indeed, I thank you very much.” 

With this, to which Dorison responded with a 
low bow, she walked off with the officer, who 
returned a moment later saying : 

“ The young lady desires to know your name 
and address, so that her father may call upon you.” 

Dorison had regained his self-possession fully, 
and he replied : 

“Say to the young lady, with my compliments, 
please, that while I shall esteem it as an honor to be 
visited by her father, his thanks are unnecessary, 
since I am grateful for having been able to render 
service to his daughter. My name is James Dud- 
ley; my address is No. — Twenty-ninth Street.” 

It is doubtful whether the officer repeated any 
more of this rather grandiloquent speech than the 
address. Dorison, turning, saw the young stranger 
regarding him with an insolent sneer. It made him 
angry and all the more so because he was conscious 
that his speech, a little too pompous to be in good 
taste, had given reason for the sneer. 

So he rushed forthwith into another error. 

“My name is James Dudley. What is yours?” 


86 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


‘ ‘Really,” said the young man, with studied inso- 
lence, ‘‘your information is highly important, but I 
am not bartering on such terms.” 

An angry reply leaped to Dorison’s tongue, but 
perceiving the absurdity of a quarrel upon such 
insufficient grounds, he walked out of the store. 

It was some time before he cooled, for he felt he 
had made himself ridiculous. Indeed it w r as not 
until he recognized the humor of the situation — 
that he desired to punish the young man for having 
himself been absurd, that he could laugh it off. By 
this time he found he had passed the store he wished 
to call at, and retraced his steps. Although he 
endeavored to bend his mind to the business he had 
in hand, he was not able to banish that charming 
face, especially those upturned eyes. Perhaps his 
failure to elicit any information, and he visited the 
whole list, was due to that haunting face and to the 
memory of the pressure of that soft, yielding form 
in his arms as he bore it to the sidewalk. 

Tired out at the end, disgusted with his failure, 
and blaming himself for having done his work badly, 
he returned to his apartments to prepare himself for 
his evening’s work. His thoughts turned to the 
purpose Cathcart had in view in sending him into 
the life he was leading. And while he acknowl- 
edged to himself that he had fallen into old ways 
and habits with astonishing ease, and that his life 
was far from disagreeable, yet he doubted the wis- 
dom of Cathcart and could not put away the idea 
that he was merely the puppet of the whims and 


AN AD VENTURE. 


87 


caprices of a man who had entered upon his dotage. 
Consequently, he could not believe that he could 
continue long on his present course. These thoughts, 
not unmixed with occasional reversions to the adven- 
tures of the day, occupied him as he dressed for 
the evening. Indeed, he had barely completed 
his dressing when a card was presented bearing the 
words: “Herbert Clavering Eustace.” 

As he directed his caller to be shown up, he was 
conscious of a feeling of elation, reason for which he 
could not satisfactorily give to himself. However, 
little time was given for self-examination, for in a 
moment Mr. Eustace was ushered into the room. 

His caller was a tall, slim gentleman, whose sixty 
winters bore lightly upon him ; a gentleman of ele- 
gant and courtly bearing ; whose head \Vas covered 
with snow-white hair, while a mustache as white 
swept across his face and lost itself in soft, silken 
white whiskers. With perfect breeding he stated 
the purpose of his call to be wholly that of thanking 
Mr. Dudley for the inestimable service rendered his 
daughter; and not only, he said, did he convey the 
thanks of the other members of the family, but of 
the young lady herself, who, she was quite certain, 
at the time of the accident had not shown proper 
appreciation of what she had been saved from by 
Mr. Dudley’s quick wit and ready hand. 

All of this overwhelmed Dorison, who was really 
a modest fellow, and he felt that shamefacedness 
at being so much thanked, manly men ever do. By 
a strong effort he pulled his wits together and met 


88 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB . 


the courtesy in a well-bred manner, avoiding the 
error of treating a service the beneficiaries regarded 
important, as trivial, as ill-bred people are so apt to 
do. This in turn impressed Mr. Eustace. They 
glided into a general chat of a few moments, when 
the caller arose and again renewing his distinguished 
considerations, expressed the hope the day was not 
far distant when the young lady might thank him 
in person, but in such general terms and in such 
tone that Dorison instantly felt that he would be a 
consummate fool if he were to take the expression 
to be anything more than a polite courtesy. 

He accompanied Mr. Eustace, to the door, and in 
doing so passed into another light, giving Mr. 
Eustace for the first time a fair opportunity to 
observe his face. 

'‘Good heavens!” exclaimed the old gentleman, 
startled out of his propriety, “What a marvelous 
resemblance. Sir, are you related in any way to 
Reuben Dorison?” 

Too well disciplined in this direction to be taken 
aback, Dorison replied: 

“The gentleman is unknown to me.” 

“He is dead these eight years. He was a dear 
friend of mine. Your resemblance to him at the 
age you are now, is something wonderful. Indeed, 
intervening years pass away, and as I talk with you 
I seem to talk with him. You have his voice, his 
bearing, his very tricks of manner, even your smile 
is his. Upon my word it is wonderful.” 

It required all the self-control Dorison could sum- 


AN ADVENTURE. 


89 


mon to prevent a betrayal of himself in this outburst. 
Murmuring something about strong resemblances 
being not uncommon in this world, he bowed his 
visitor out. 

The door closed, and he threw himself into the' 
first chair; he wildly cursed the fate that compelled 
him to deny his birth, his identity, his claim to the 
consideration of his father’s friends, and to mislead 
and prevaricate to a fine, honorable gentleman, as 
he was certain Mr. Eustace was — the father of his 
daughter. The bitterness of his destiny came upon 
him with even greater force, and he passed an hour 
in passionate revolt against the fortune that had been 
meted out to him. Out of this futile rebelling, he 
passed into a frenzy of determination to wrest the 
secret of his disgrace from unwilling time, and went 
out into the air. 


CHAPTER IX. 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

W HEN Dorison rushed out, under the impulse 
of his determination, he felt strong enough to 
wrestle with worlds. When he reached the street 
and considered what he should do he felt his weak- 
ness. As suddenly as he had burst into his spasm 
of passionate remonstrance, as suddenly he relapsed 
into hopelessness. Lost in gloomy thought he wan- 
dered on, caring little whither he went. He reached 
Third Avenue without knowing why he had walked 
in that direction. 

Near the corner, an elderly man, with long hair 
and beard, had erected a frail, low platform which 
he had lit with oil lamps. He was an itinerant 
phrenologist, and was holding forth in long words 
and execrable grammar upon the marvelous head of 
a street gamin he had persuaded to submit to exami- 
nation. Over his head was a placard, “A man is 
what he makes himself.” 

Dorison did not ask what pertinency the aphorism 
might have to the old man’s occupation, but apply- 
ing it to himself, laughed bitterly, and asked aloud, 
‘‘Is that so? What am I but the foot-ball of chance — 
a chip on the rushing waters of life, I can neither 
resist nor control.*' 


go 


THE MA1ST WITH A THUMB . 9 1 

He stopped idly to listen to the street fakir as he 
gulled his auditors, standing on the outer edge of 
the circle in a shadow. T iring of listening, he tu rned 
to go, when his attention was attracted by a figure 
which seemed familiar. A glance sufficed to show 
that it was the young man he had encountered at 
the time of the accident to Miss Eustace, who was 
so insolent. Perceiving that he was not observed 
by the young man, he determined to remain where 
he was, rather than encounter for a second time the 
one who had filled him with such repugnance. 

The young man, dressed as he was in the after- 
noon, lounged under the shadow of a covered 
entrance to the rear of the corner saloon. As Dori- 
son watched him, a man, sharp-eyed and alert in 
his bearing, taking note of everything about him, 
passed by. Dorison heard a low, shrill whistle and 
thought he discovered an exchange of signals 
between the new comer and the lounger, but so rapid 
and insignificant were they, that perceiving no 
change in the attitude of the young man, and seeing 
the other one pass on, he concluded he was mistaken. 
A moment later the sharp-eyed man returned, pass- 
ing close, to the lounger in the shadow, and this 
time Dorison saw plainly that a folded paper was 
transferred from the lounger to the passer-by, who 
went on a little distance and then sauntered back. 
As he passed the lounger he said, without turning 
his head: 

“When?” 

“ To-night,” replied the lounger. 


92 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

The sharp-eyed man joined the circle of those 
listening to the phrenologist, listened.a moment, and 
then stepping back said: 

“What hour?" 

“Between twelve and one,” came the answer from 
the lounger. 

The alert man again joined the circle, and again 
listening a moment, stepped back and Dorison 
heard the further exchange: 

“How many?” 

“Three.” 

With this the alert young man walked off rapidly 
toward the corner and disappeared. The lounger 
emerged from his shadow and went off in the direc- 
tion of Broadway. 

“Mysterious,” muttered Dorison. “Now, what 
can that mean? If I were Cathcart I presume I 
would construct the theory of a great crime or a 
huge conspiracy.” 

He came out of the dark corner. A young woman 
was coming down the street intent upon her own 
thoughts, humming a tune. As she came opposite 
the entrance to the saloon referred to, as the one 
under the shadow of the cover of which the antipa- 
thy of Dorison was lounging, the door was flung 
open and a loudly dressed man, partially intoxi- 
cated, came out. 

Seeing the young woman he cried out: 

“Hello, Bess, old gal.” 

“Go ’way,” she replied, trying to evade him. 

But he reached forward and, catching her by the 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 93 

arm, tried roughly to pull her to him, as he said, 
with a taunting laugh : 

“No, you don’t, my bird. Come here and give 
me a kiss.’’ 

“Let me go,” cried the girl, struggling to free 
herself. “Let me go, you big loafer, or I’ll call 
the police.’’ 

“Or, Johnny the grip, eh! Oh, no, you don’t go 
until you give me a kiss.” 

He bent over in an endeavor to carry out his 
threat, when she dealt him a smart blow upon his 
cheek with her open hand. 

With an oath he made a motion as if to strike 
her, when a policeman, running from the corner, 
cried out : 

“None of that, now.” 

Dorison, before whose eyes this scene had been 
enacted so rapidly that he could not interfere, sup- 
posed the cry of the policeman was addressed to 
the ruffian, but to his surprise he saw him seize the 
girl. 

“I’ve been looking for this. Now I’ll take you 
in.” 

“I’ve done nothing,” said the girl in alarm. “He 
insulted me for no reason.” 

“Oh yes! Of course. That’s likely,” cried the 
officer, scornfully. 

“Officer,” interposed Dorison, “you will do an 
act of injustice if you arrest this young woman. I 
„was a witness of the whole thing.” 

“Do you know this woman?” 


94 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

“No, I don’t, but I know she was not to blame 
in this matter.’’ * 

“Well, I do,’’ persisted the officer. 

“Whetheryou doornot,’’ replied Dorison, “you 
mustn’t arrest her for anything she’s done to-night. 
If you commit such an outrage I’ll make trouble 
for you.’’ 

“Are you a ‘pal’ of her’s?’’ 

“I’m a ‘pal’ of nobody,’’ said Dorison with dig- 
nity. 

“Do you know what she is?’’ asked the officer, 
with a sneer. 

“No, and I don’t ask. But I do know she was 
passing along the street quietly when this ruffian 
came out of that door, and seizing her, tried to kiss 
her, an indignity she very properly resented. You 
must not arrest her ; if you do I will make a com- 
plaint against you where it will trouble you. If you 
must arrest any one arrest the rascal who molested 
her.’’ 

Impressed by Dorison’s stern manner, the officer 
looked for the offender denounced, and to the sur- 
prise of all he had disappeared. 

“He’s had some reason for sliding out,’’ said the 
officer to himself. 

Then turning to the girl he said : 

“Your’re in luck to-night in havin’ this swell at 
your back. You look out though, I’m watchin’ 
you.” 

The girl, who had not spoken a word during the 
passage between the officer and Dorison, now turned 
to the latter and said: 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 95 

“I am obliged to you for your kindness, sir. 
You’ve got me out of a bad scrape, sir.” 

The policeman had gone back to the corner. The 
girl, watching him, laid her hand upon the arm of 
Dorison to detain him. 

“I’m not what that man wants to make me out. 
I’ve got a man I am as much married to as if the 
priest had said the words. That man — the police- 
man — has been followin’ me for a year, and he’s got 
it in forme because I told him to go about hisbusb 
ness. The other man’s crooked — he’s a thief, and 
my man knows he is. I won’t forget your kindness. 
It isn’t every swell as would interfere to help a 
woman like me.” 

She went off nodding and smiling. 

“I’m in for adventures to-day,” muttered Dorison, 
as he retraced his steps through Twenty-ninth Street 
to Broadway. “I wonder if destiny directed me 
this way to help that poor girl. Apparently I have 
an occupation in life — the rescuing of pretty young 
women. It does not promise to be remunerative, 
yet if thanks were coin, I would be rich to-night.” 

The incidents of the evening had stirred him from 
his gloomy thoughts, and his mind reverted to the 
espisode of the early afternoon, bringing the fair 
young face with violet eyes and clustering golden 
curls before him. In what direction his thoughts 
strayed may be judged from the remark he muttered 
aloud as he turned into Broadway. 

‘‘It was a sunbeam shot athwart a dark life, and 
as unattainable as the sun itself.” 


9 6 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


Arriving in front of Daly’s Theater, upon a sud- 
den impulse he turned in and bought a ticket. 
Though the curtain was up the play had not pro- 
gressed far into the first act when he found himself 
comfortably seated. 

Passionately fond of the drama, he was soon 
engrossed in the brightness of the dialogue and 
the skill of the sterling favorites, Rehan and 
Lewis. 

Immediately in front of him sat a gentleman with 
whom he had a slight acquaintance. Beside this 
acquaintance, evidently his companion, sat a young 
man whose countenance he noted was the most attrac- 
tive he had ever seen in a man. Somewhat plump 
and fair, good humor, intelligence and refinement 
reigned in it. He further noted, that the young man 
was endowed with a head of hair which should by 
right have been bestowed upon one of the other 
sex, for it was pure golden, fine, soft, silky and curly. 
From time to time, as interest in the play flagged, 
Dorison turned to look at that kindly, winsome 
face, remarking how artless and responsive it was 
without losing a particle of manliness. 

“Yet,” he commented, “such a face, I take it, 
would win more with men than with women.” 

By-and-bye the young man who had thus attracted 
his attention threw his arm over the back of the seat, 
permitting it to hang limply behind him. 

Dorison started violently. He turned pale and a 
feeling of sickening faintness swept over him. Had 
not all faces been intent upon the stage, his marked 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 97 

agitation must have attracted the attention of all 
about him. He trembled in every limb. 

There was the hand he had been bidden to seek. 

Not only was it the hand with prominent joints and 
knuckles, and with disproportionately long thumb, 
but it was encased by the mate of the very glove he 
had that morning examined. 

It was the same in color, in quality, in form and 
in the peculiarity of its make. Like that one, it 
fitted in every part of the hand that wore it perfectly. 

Fora moment or two everything swam before his 
eyes. He seized the arms of his seat to prevent 
himself from falling. The sensation, as powerful as 
it was, passed away and he got himself under better 
control. He studied the hand and glove. There 
could be no mistake. The opportunity for close 
examination was ample before the young man with- 
drew his hand. 

From this moment the drama on the stage lost 
interest for him. He now was concerned in a 
tragedy before whose dread events the puny hap- 
penings of the comedy paled into insignificance. 
He studied the face of the young man with new 
interest and from another point of view. 

“ It is the hand and the glove,” he said to him- 
self, “ but it is difficult to believe that that face 
could have been concerned in such awful work.” 

Yet, while he expressed this thought, he did not 
falter in his belief that the murderer of Mrs. 
Farish and her daughter sat before him. For a 
brief moment he contemplated the wild idea of 


9 8 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


denouncing the man there and then. This was due 
to the strength of Cathcart’s theorizing. Though 
the old detective would have laughed at Dorison’s 
certainty, he could not have failed to have been 
complimented by this sincere testimony to the 
power of his reasoning. 

What Dorjson did determine to do was to wait 
until the play was done and follow the young man 
with a view of discovering who he was. He grew 
so impatient for the curtain to fall, and so ner- 
vous over the slow progress the comedy made, 
that, unable to sit still longer, he left his seat and 
went into the rear of the theatre, from whence he 
could command a view of the house and not lose 
sight of his prey. After what seemed to him an 
interminable time the curtain fell, and the large 
audience slowly made its way out. As the two 
upon whom his eyes were fixed approached the 
spot where he stood, the companion of the man 
with a thumb recognized Dorison with a courteous 
bow and passed on. Dorison followed. At the 
outer door the twain stopped and conversed 
earnestly. And suddenly, before Dorison could 
anticipate the act, the man with the thumb flung a 
laughing negative to some persuasion of his 
friend, darted across the pavements, leaped into a 
waiting carriage and was rapidly driven away. 

The other turned to watch the people pass out. 
Dorison stepped up, and saluting him, said: 

“I have been strangely attracted by the face 
of your companion of the evening. I have 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 99 

rarely seen one more winning. May I ask his 
name ? ” 

The gentleman, who was one introduced to 
Dorison through the maneuvering of Nettleman, 
laughed as he replied : 

“The common experience. Every one is at- 
tracted by it. I tell him that, like the tradi- 
tional girl, he carries his fortune in his face. He 
is as good a fellow as it indicates. His name 
is —’ " 

At that moment a gentleman with a lady on 
either arm addressed the speaker, and the sen- 
tence was stopped short of the information it was 
to convey. Lifting his hat to Dorison with request 
to be excused, he offered his arm to one of the 
ladies and walked away. 

Dorison was disappointed, but he consoled him- 
self with the thought that the information was not 
lost, only delayed, since he could soon find the 
gentleman who possessed it. 

His first impulse was to seek Cathcart at once, 
but reflecting that the discovery of the young man, 
without further information, would carry nothing to 
so practical a person, he determined to delay his 
communication until he could gather the name of 
the owner of the thumb and something as to his 
surroundings. 

Quite excited he strolled down the street and 
entered that great thoroughfare, the Hoffman 
House. Having made a tour of the corridors and 
the art gallery without finding any one he knew, he 


IOO 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


turned to go out, when he saw the man with the 
thumb enter the door. 

To his great surprise also, he .saw the young 
man whom he had seen twice before that day 
under most dissimilar circumstances — the inso- 
lent young man — start up from a corner and 
address the other. 

The man in whom he, Dorison, had so great an 
interest, returned a cold and unmistakably haughty 
bow, and passed on, while the other colored, 
frowned and returned to his corner. 

The man with the thumb supplied himself with 
a cigar at the case, went out again, and leaping 
into his cab was driven off. 

“ Strange,” muttered Dorison, “ that that man 
should cross my path three times to-day, ending up 
with showing he knows the man I want to know so 
badly.” 


CHAPTER X. 


BY WAYS UNKNOWN. 

E ARLY the next morning, even before he had 
breakfasted, Dorison sought the old detective 
at his room. 

“Have you found your glove-maker?” asked 
Cathcart, as he entered. 

“I have something much better,” replied Dori- 
son. “The man with the thumb.” 

“You are expeditious,” said the old man, so 
coolly as to dampen the ardor of the younger one, 
who rather anticipated an outburst of surprise and 
excitement. 

“It was purely by accident,” he said. 

“Well, tell me the story, and begin at the begin- 
ning.” 

Thus adjured, his enthusiasm repressed by the 
total lack of it in the other, Dorison began with his 
entrance into the theater, omitting no detail. 

When he had finished, Cathcart shook his head 
dubiously. 

“What is wrong?” anxiously queried Dorison. 
“Do you think I erred in permitting the young 
fellow to get away without learning his name?” 

“No; that can be easily obtained. But I dis- 
trust the conclusions of your information.” 

ioi 


102 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB \ 


Dorison was puzzled and said so. 

“I mean this,” said the old detective. ‘‘Not only 
did you find a hand which answers perfectly to the 
one I want, but you found an exact mate to the 
glove which you examined yesterday morning. You 
have found too much. If you had found the hand 
without the glove, or the glove without the hand, I 
would feel better satisfied. You have found so 
much at the first blush, which being established 
would almost justify immediate arrest, it shakes my 
confidence. I am afraid your imagination ran away 
with you.” 

‘‘Not in this instance,” said Dorison, highly dis- 
pleased and disposed to resentment. ‘‘There could 
possibly be no mistake.” 

‘‘My sensation is one of disappointment, and I 
give great heed to my sensations. Perhaps you may 
be entirely right. But let me present a considera- 
tion to you. You do not doubt that the man who 
lost the glove failed to discover his loss, do you ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Then having done so, recollecting where he 
removed it, and having committed the murders, 
don’t you think he would be worried over the loss, 
and would fear that by it he had given a clue to a 
search for himself ? ** 

“ Very probably.” 

“ Do you think a man so worried would don an 
identically similar pair and go into so conspicuous 
a place as a theater ? ” 

“ Well, what do you argue then ? ” 


by ways Unknown. 


103 

“ Either that you have been grossly mistaken, 
or that the man with the thumo is not the man 
we want.” 

“ You are discouraging.” 

“ I do not mean to be so ; we must be cautious 
in so important a matter as an arrest.” 

“ You must see the man yourself then,” replied 
Dorison, much nettled. “ I can do no more than 
tell you I have found a man whose right hand cor- 
responds precisely in every particular, even to the 
peculiar prominence of the second knuckle, to the 
hand you want, and who wears a glove precisely 
similar to the one I saw yesterday morning. Now,” 
continued Dorison, growing more earnest, “ when 
I examined that glove I paid less attention to the 
form of the hand it indicated, than to the make, 
kind and color of the glove — particularly the color. 
I accepted your description of the hand as true. 
On seeing. it, I saw it was one of the kind a man of 
fashion would wear in the evening.” 

“Ah ! ” cried Cathcart, interested. “ Follow up 
that point. Tell me what you mean ? ” 

“ The man who wore it was in full dress. Fash- 
ion’s laws are inexorable. At present it prescribes 
just that kind of a glove for evening wear, just that 
color. Probably ten thousand men wore just such 
a glove last night in the cities of the East. Now, 
that young man, putting on full dress, would natu- 
rally draw on one of that kind. You said the man 
who wore the glove was a bit of a dandy. This 
man is.” 


104 THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 

“ You have made a point,” said the old man. 
“ The man we want, besides having a big thumb 
and prominent joints, was tall and slim, with 
brown hair.” 

' Dorison’s face fell. He had forgotten this 
requirement. He hesitated to reply. 

“ Well,” said Cathcart, “ does your man answer 
to that ? ” 

“ No,” replied Dorison sullenly. “ He was short 
and plump, his hair was light — a golden color.” 

“ Then he is either not the man we want, or we 
have come upon a variation in our theory. How- 
ever,” added Cathcart, “ that is not to say your 
information is not important. Upon the contrary, 
it is highly so. You must follow him up ; make his 
acquaintance, gain his regard, and if possible get 
on terms of intimacy with him. When you have 
found out his haunts I must get a look at him.” 

“You would do all this believing he is not our 
man,” asked Dorison, with something of a sneer. 

“ I believe nothing,” replied the old man testily, 
“but I disbelieve nothing. You jump at conclu- 
sions. It is a bad fault, especially in an inquiry 
like the one we are engaged in. You came here 
certain you had found the murderer. Now, upon 
the expression of a possible doubt, you are certain 
he is not. Yet you have shown me a flaw in my 
reasoning. I neither believe nor disbelieve at this 
stage of the game. I am open to conviction on all 
sides. This man with the thumb must be followed 
up. Obtain his name — all about him.” 


by Ways unknown. 

“ I had two chances at him last night. I saw him 
afterward at the Hoffman.” 

“ Indeed. Was he alone?” 

“ Yes, at the Hoffman. Though a man who had 
crossed my path twice before during the day accos- 
ted him.” 

“A friend?” 

“ Evidently not. My man was cold and haughty 
toward him — came as near giving him a dead cut 
as he could without doing so.” 

“ Who and what was the other ? ” 

To answer that question involved a statement of 
the episode of rescuing Miss Eustace, the call of 
the father, and the strange incident upon the cor- 
ner of Third Avenue and Twenth-ninth Street. 

When Dorison finished, the old man, who had 
been an attentive listener, said : 

“ The meeting of these two men was mysterious. 
Something wrong there. So this man spoke to 
your man, eh ? ” 

“Yes, attempted to, but was repelled by the 
other.” 

“ Mr. Eustace discovered your strong resem- 
blance to your father. You must follow that up. 
You must cultivate his acquaintance.” 

“ To what end ? ” 

“ He was intimate with your father, and you may 
find him valuable in solving the mystery of that 
unfinished letter.” 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Dorison, with peculiar empha- 
sis, “ I had supposed that inquiry was lost sight of 
in the superior importance of the other.” 


106 THE MAH WITH A THUMB . 

The old man keenly regarded the other, as he 
gave expression to the slight sarcasm. 

“ Do you not know,” said Cathcart, impres- 
sively, “ that in the revelation of the mystery of 
one, the mystery of the other will be revealed ? ” 

Somewhat abashed, Dorison hesitated before he 
replied : 

‘‘You have not been particularly communicative 
as to your theories. I have followed you blindly.” 

“ I belidve success is more surely attained by keep- 
ing my plans to myself,” replied Cathcart calmly. 

“ I do not complain,” replied Dorison hastily. 
“ I recognize my own want of skill, and therefore 
am content to obey implicitly.” 

“ And thereby be most useful. Now seek this 
man of yours. You need not come to me until you 
have learned all you can. Let me tell you for 
your own satisfaction, that notwithstanding your 
belief that the one thing in which you are particu- 
larly interested is being overlooked, that I have 
devoted the past three days, and will possibly for 
several days to come, to a most searching inquiry 
into the relations your father maintained for the 
years immediately preceding his death. What I 
have learned I shall not tell you, for I have not 
yet digested it. As soon as you can accomplish it, 
arrange so I can get a good look at your man.” 

Dorison, as he walked away from Cathcart, felt as 
if he was a very inexperienced man, and had much 
yet to learn of the ways of the world. 

It was in this frame of mind that he- sought the 


BY WAYS UNKNOWN-. 


107 


Hoffman House for breakfast. The hour was not 
early, and he was enabled to obtain one of those 
tables adjoining the windows looking out on Broad- 
way, where he could watch the tide of humanity as 
it floated by. He was so much engrossed in this 
watching that he did not observe a gentleman ris- 
ing from a table near him, and cross the room to 
his own table. It was Bushnell, the one whom he 
had seen in the theater the previous evening with 
the man with the thumb. 

“ I suppose an apology for my abrupt departure 
last evening is due you, Mr. Dudley,” he said. 

Dorison replied courteously : 

“ The apology was made in the very cause of 
interruption.” 

“ I am glad you take it so politely. I’ll answer 
your question now. The name of the gentleman 
you inquired about is Eustace, and there is no 
better fellow alive than Charley Eustace.” 

“ Eustace ! ” said Dorison in surprise. “ Eus- 
tace ! indeed. What Eustace ? ” 

“ He is the son of Herbert Clavering Eustace, 
an old New York family of wealth and social posi- 
tion. Charley has been abroad for many years, 
having only returned a few months ago. Do you 
know the family ? ” 

“I can hardly say I do, although I had a call 
from Mr. Eustace yesterday evening. Earlier in 
the day I had the honor of saving his daughter 
from being run over on Broadway, and he called to 
acknowledge the service.” 


o8 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ Indeed ! ” replied Bushnell, “ was she injured ? 
I heard last evening she was ill — I presume it was 
she who was ill — there are two daughters, you 
know.” 

“ I did not know it,” answered Dorison. “ Miss 
Eustace was not injured, though she was knocked 
down by a horse ; but that she might be ill from 
the shock she received, I can readily believe.” 

“ Yes it must be she,” returned Bushnell. “ Char- 
ley, who had not been home to dinner — indeed he 
maintains bachelor apartments — did not know of it 
last night when we were together. She is a charm- 
ing girl.” 

Dorison did not reply for a moment or two. His 
mind was busy with thoughts of how singularly the 
affairs of these people were becoming tangled with 
his own. 

His companion rattled on : 

“ I saw you were much attracted to Charley last 
evening. Everybody is. He carries the stamp of 
his good-fellowship on his face.” 

“ I was much interested in him. Does he follow 
a profession ! ” 

“ No ; he has studied surgery here and abroad.” 

Dorison gave such a visible start that his com- 
panion stopped in wonderment and looked at him. 

“ It is nothing,” said Dorison, casting about for 
a reason for his involuntary manifestation of sur- 
prise. “ I saw a man that moment on the street I 
could have sworn was two thousand miles from here. 
You say your friend studied surgery abroad ? ” 


BY WAYS UNKNOWN. 


109 

“ Yes, here and abroad. But I doubt if he will 
ever practice it. He is independently wealthy by 
the will of an uncle, and he has his share in his 
father’s estate, which is not small. Would you 
like to meet him ? ” 

“ Very much indeed.” 

“ He will dine with me to-night here at six, and 
if you will join us in this room at that hour I will 
be pleased to have you.” 

Accepting the invitation gladly, the two young 
men parted at the door of the restaurant. 

“ Fortune favors me,” muttered Dorison to him- 
self. “ The opportunity to observe the young man 
Cathcart desired is made for him. I must find 
him and give him notice.” 

The work of finding the old detective was not 
so easy, and the greater part of the day was con- 
sumed in the search. Indeed, when he was found, 
there was barely time left Dorison in which to pre- 
pare for dinner and meet his engagement. 


CHAPTER XI. 


TALI/, SLIM, WITH BROWN HAIR. 

C ATHCART had said he would be present at 
the Hoffman cafe at the time of the dinner. 
Consequently, when the three gathered about a 
round table in the middle of the room on the cor- 
ner of Broadway and Twenty-fifth Street, Dorison 
looked about for the old detective. He was not 
present as yet. Noting his absence, but believing 
he would soon appear, he gave himself up to the 
enjoyment of the dinner. 

It progressed with a good deal of light, humor- 
ous talk, much of it devoted to the long sojourn of 
Eustace abroad and his experience there. If Dori- 
son had been attracted by Eustace’s appearance, 
he was doubly so when brought into close personal 
contact. Modest, light-hearted, gay, brimming with 
intelligence and overflowing with humor, Dorison 
thought he was the most engaging person he had 
ever met, and recollection of the tragedy in which 
he was supposed to have borne so horrible a part 
passed away under the influence of the hour. The 
doubt thrown by Cathcart upon the accuracy of 
his own conclusions, contributed not a little to this 
result. 

Dorison and Eustace were manifestly drawn 


no 


TALL , SLIM , JF77W BROWN HAIR. 


Ill 


toward each other ; it w*s plain to Bushnell that 
they had discovered a great liking for each other 
almost at first sight, and they did not part for the 
evening until they had made plans for an early 
meeting. 

In the mean time, however, Dorison wondered 
why Cathcart did not come. He was anxious to 
have him do so, for he desired the old detective 
should see he had made no mistake. Further, he 
desired to tell the old man what he had learned 
earlier in the day — that Eustace had studied 
surgery — a fact he had suppressed until after the 
detective had confirmed the accuracy of his own 
observations. The dinner was drawing to a close, 
and still the old detective had not put in an 
appearance, to his great disappointment. 

Finally Eustace and Bushnell rose, bent upon an 
engagement they had previously made. As they 
donned their overcoats, a man with black bushy 
beard and hair, who had been sitting at an adjoin- 
ing table, rose also, and passed close to Dorison on 
his way out. The latter felt a slip of paper thrust 
between his fingers. 

So soon as he could he looked at the slip. It 
was a bit torn from the margin of a newspaper, and 
on it was penciled these words : “ Wait for me in 
the office of the hotel.” 

Wondering who the stranger could be, and what 
business he could have with him, and speculating 
as to what the message so strangely communicated 
could portend, Dorison lit a cigar and wandered 


1 1 2 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


into the office. Pacing up and down the long cor- 
ridor he thought upon the singularity of events 
which had crowded upon him during the previous 
forty-eight hours. He marveled to note how each 
seemed in some manner to hinge upon the others. 
While all this aroused a deep interest within him, 
it also caused a feeling of unrest, of feverish excite- 
ment Yet this had the compensating effect of tak- 
ing him out of that condition of despondency and 
melancholy which had become almost a part of his 
nature. While he was speculating upon the possi- 
ble outcome of these events, Cathcart suddenly 
appeared before him. 

“ You were wholly right,” he said quietly, before 
Dorison could remark upon his failure to appear 
in time. “ It is the hand and the glove as well. I 
observed the gloves as he put them on.” 

Dorison stared at him in astonishment. A light 
broke upon him. 

“ You were the man with black hair and beard,” 
he said. 

“ Yes ; didn’t you know me ? ” 

“ Know you. I did not dream it was you. You 
were completely disguised.” 

“ You did your work excellently well,” said Cath- 
cart, ignoring the compliment, as if disguises were 
matters of hourly occurrence. “ But I was never 
more puzzled than I am now. If one could only 
trust to appearances. If I were to do so in this 
case I would dismiss all idea of young Eustace 
being implicated in that murder as preposterous. 


TALL, SLLM, WLTH BROWN HAIR. 113 

I had my lesson, however, twenty years ago. I 
was given the work of tracing the murder of a whole 
family in a town in Illinois. Indications pointed 
to a young girl living in the family. When I saw 
her sweet, soft, innocent eyes, her face almost 
angelic in its expressions, and her pretty coaxing 
manners, I dismissed suspicion of her and went off 
on a theory which led to nothing. She moved away, 
and two years after was caught in the very act of 
crime. Having been convicted, she confessed these 
murders, and an examination into her life showed 
her to be a monster of depravity. It was incon- 
ceivable that one so young and tender could be so 
black.” 

“ You have returned to the theory then that 
Eustace is the man you want,” commented Dori- 
son, disappointment and regret plainly visible. 

“ I have neither returned to nor abandoned that 
theory,” replied Cathcart. “ I hold everything in 
abeyance pending further inquiry. Our puzzle 
does not fit — the pieces do not match. We sup- 
posed that the wearer of that glove was tall and 
slim with brown hair. In other words, that the 
wearer of the glove, the tall, slim man, and the 
walker in Union Square were one and the same 
man. What we have discovered is, that the wearer 
of the glove is one person. Whether the tall, slim 
man and the exquisite of Union Square are one or 
two persons, has yet to be determined. My theory 
has gone astray just so far. What was it we learned 
in school ? — Falsus in uno falsus in omnibus. If I 


1 1 4 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


am wrong in one particular I may be wrong in 
all.” 

“ Eustace could not have been either the caller 
at stated intervals nor the exquisite of Union 
Square, exquisite though he is.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because he has been continuously absent from 
the country for six years, until four months ago.” 

“ Another complexity. Why should he return 
home after so long an absence to murder two inof- 
fensive women ? ” 

“ He is a surgical student, having studied here 
and abroad,” said Dorison. 

“ The devil ! ” said Cathcart. “ The proofs ac- 
cumulate against him. You know that to be true ? ” 

“ His friend Bushnell told me so.” 

a The case presents more perplexities than any I 
ever was engaged in.” 

“Those gloves were not made in this country,” 
said Dorison irrelevantly, though thoughtfully. 

“ J ust what I have been thinking since you told me 
he has but recently returned from Europe. Well,” 
continued the old detective, “ there has been sub- 
stantial gain. We have discovered the owner of the 
glove, and at the proper time we can compel him to 
explain its close proximity to the body of the mur- 
dered woman. He must have had some relation 
to the woman, and if not guilty of the murder, 
must be possessed of knowledge concerning them. 
You must gain his confidence. You are in a fair 
way to do it,” 


TALL, SLIM , WITH BROWN HAIR. 1 15 

“ I never entered upon an enterprise with greater 
reluctance or loathing,” replied Dorison. “ I freely 
confess I have an extraordinary liking for the 
young fellow. It seems like treachery to seek his 
friendship to his own undoing.” 

“ That does not necessarily follow,” sharply re- 
plied Cathcart. “ But you must put aside all such 
notions, if you propose to succeed ,in your search. 
Recollect the interest you have at stake — the 
rehabilitation of your own good name.” 

“ I know, I know,” hastily responded Dorison. 
“ Nothing shall swerve me from that. But even 
with this before me I cannot repress a feeling 
of regret for that proud father and tender sister 
when disaster shall overtake the son and brother, 
nor the remorse I feel in anticipation that I shall 
be an instrument of its precipitation.” 

“ Better curb that imagination of yours until you 
see that you have precipitated disaster upon them,” 
said Cathcart contemptuously, evidently annoyed 
at what he thought was a lack of proper spirit. 

A moment later, his mind having reverted to the 
practical bearings of the matter, he said : 

“ Cultivate an intimacy ; become a visitor to his 
family ; impress yourself upon the father, and get 
him to talk of your own father if possible.” 

Nettled, stung indeed, by the way the old man 
had treated his sentimental outburst, Dorison steeled 
himself and replied curtly : 

“ Give me your instructions. They shall be 
obeyed to the best of my ability.” 


Ii 6 the man with a thumb . 

The old man fixed his keen eyes upon the younger 
one for a moment, and turned as if to leave him. 
As he did sOj Dorison hastily placed his hand on 
the detective's arm, detaining him and whispering : 

“ Do you see that man who has just entered 
alone ? ” 

“ Yes/' 

“ That is the one who crossed my path three 
times yesterday — first, when I rescued Miss Eustace ; 
second, when I saw him have that mysterious meet- 
ing at Twenty-ninth Street and Third Avenue, and 
lastly when he attempted to speak with Eustace and 
was rebuffed.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Cathcart, as he closely watched the 
young man walk up the long corridor. 

“ Tall, slim, and brown haired,” he muttered. 

Dorison started with surprise. 

“ Dressed in clothes of extreme fashion,” added 
Cathcart. 

Dorison felt his heart bound. 

“ Dissipated and fast in appearance.” 

Dorison saw the resemblance and the pertinency 
of the old detective’s words. 

“ He answers to the description of both,” con- 
tinued Cathcart. “ Stay where you are and keep 
yourself out of sight.” 

Cathcart sauntered after the young man, who 
had disappeared in the direction of the art gal- 
lery. 

Dorison retired behind the pile of trunks which 
encumbered apart of the corridor. The old detec- 


TALL, SLLM, WLTH BRO WN HALR. 1 1 7 

tive was not gone long. When he returned it was 
with a letter. 

“ There is a letter to Captain Lawton,” he said. 
“Jump into a cab and promise the driver three 
times the amount of his fare to get you quick to 
Headquarters. That letter asks for a discreet and 
intelligent shadow. Bring him back with you in 
the cab. I will wait for you here, unless the man 
goes out, when I will follow him. In that event let 
the shadow go to my rooms and await me there.” 

Dorison without question did as he was bid. As 
he rode speedily through the streets, his spirits and 
excitement rose. This appeared to be real work, 
real activity ; not aimless dawdling ; something the 
reason of which he could see. Progress was being 
really made. He experienced an energy and exhila- 
ration he had not felt before. Moreover, he hailed 
the sudden concentration of attention upon the 
part of Cathcart upon the new person, as removing, 
or at least diverting, suspicion from Eustace. 
This made him glad. He made no doubt but that 
in the brief interval of the absence of the old detec- 
tive something significant had occurred, which 
had justified this sudden energy. Reaching Head- 
quarters he delivered his letter, and a moment later 
was leading the way to his cab, followed by the man 
hastily summoned, and was soon driving back as 
rapidly. 

Entering the hotel, Cathcart met them. 

“ He is still here,” he said to Dorison. “ Stay 
where you are, I will rejoin you in a moment.” 


Ii 8 THE man with a thumb. 

To the shadow he said : 

“ I will in a moment point out a man to you. I 
want to know his name, his business, his associa- 
tions, his habits, in fact all you can learn about 
him. Report to me at any hour of the day or 
night you may happen to have information. 
Here’s my address. Now follow me.” 

He went directly into the art gallery and pointed 
out the man sitting at a table near the door, which 
the young man was watching, without being 
observed by the object of their attention. 

“ That is your man,” said Cathcart. “ Find 
out especially where he lives and what places he 
haunts.” 

Cathcart returned to Dorison, who was awaiting 
his return with impatience. 

“ What has occurred ? ” he asked anxiously. 

“ Nothing,” replied the old detective curtly. “I 
shall go to bed now. I am tired. You have done 
a good day’s work to-day .’ 1 

What further might have passed between them 
was prevented by the appearance of the young man 
on his way out of the hotel. 

The shadow was behind him. 

“ Good-night,” said Cathcart, as he too moved 
off. 

Dorison had already learned not to question 
him, and so he did not seek to detain the old man. 

He too went out in the night air to cool his 
burning excitement. 


CHAPTER XII. 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 

T HE days immediately following the exciting 
events which have been detailed in the previ- 
ous chapters were uneventful. 

Dorison had fallen again into what he called 
aimless dawdling. The high hopes of rapid pro- 
gress he had begun to entertain died within him, 
and despair took possession. 

The shadow had faithfully followed his man and 
had reported to Cathcart. 

“ The name of the man was Harry Langdon ; he 
had come from Chicago three years previously, and 
was supposed to be a man of independent means 
since he had no occupation ; lived generally a fast 
life ; associated to some extent with professional 
gamblers ; seemed to know a good many loose 
characters and ‘ crooked ’ men without associating 
with any of them ; visited a woman who claimed 
to be his wife, in Twenty-sixth Street near Third 
Avenue, but yet had separate apartments at No. — 
Twenty-eighth Street, between Third and Lexing- 
ton avenues ; was intimate with a Dr. Fassett, a 
physician of repute, who called upon him every 
morning either at Twenty-eighth Street or Twenty- 
ninth Street, always seeming to be well informed as 
119 


120 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


to which place he was at ; after this call Langdon 
walked up Twenty-eighth or Twenty-ninth Street, 
as the case might be, to Madison Avenue, thence to 
Madison Square, crossing diagonally to the corner 
of Twenty-third Street, thence to Sixth Avenue, to 
a restaurant, where he breakfasted and where he 
read the papers for an hour or two, and met one or 
two of a half dozen who came to see him there ; 
from thence he went whither chance or fancy led 
him ; he had the entree to all the gambling saloons, 
where he played frequently but irregularly, and 
always faro ; his haunts were places of fashionable 
resort, and he was a frequent attendant upon the 
theaters.” 

In telling Dorison of this report, Cathcart said it 
was the best shadow work that had ever been done 
for him. 

While these days were passing, the acquaintance 
between Dorison and young Eustace was fast ripen- 
ing into intimacy. The two young men saw much 
of each other’s apartments, and frequented the 
theaters together. Of the two, Eustace seemed to 
be the more anxious to cultivate the intimacy. 
There were times in these days, indeed, when 
Dorison shrank from this growing friendship, in 
which he felt he was playing a traitorous part, and 
could only key himself up to its continuance by 
constant recurrence to the thought he was thus 
performing a sacred duty he owed himself. 

Carried by his friend to the Eustace residence, he 
had been received with great civility and with every 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 


121 


apparent disposition to treat him as a friend of the 
young gentleman of the house. He had been pre- 
sented to the ladies of the family and had been 
received cordially, and especially by the one he had 
rescued, with all the warmth his service deserved, 
and all the reserve modesty demanded. 

Charmed with the household, he forgot the part 
he was playing while within it. 

In time, he was invited to a formal dinner and 
gladly accepted the invitation as determining his 
status as a friend of the family. 

On this occasion, after the ladies had retired 
from the table, the elder Mr. Eustace, moving to a 
seat beside Dorison, again referred to the extraor- 
dinary resemblance the latter bore to his father. In 
an endeavor to avoid denying a relationship, Dori- 
son tried to divert the conversation. Mr. Eustace, 
however, was politely persistent, seeking to inquire 
into the antecedents of his guest, with a view to 
finding if he could not establish a blood connec- 
tion. Dorison was not adroit in his fence, and 
contented himself with simply saying that he was 
from Dubuque, and therefore could not be supposed 
to bear any relation to so old a New York family. 
Indeed, his. effort to escape a discussion of the sub- 
ject was so marked, that Mr. Eustace forebore fur- 
ther questioning. Dorison saw at once that he had 
committed a blunder, for the old gentleman froze to 
him immediately. Too scrupulously polite to offer 
indignity to a guest whom he had deliberately 
invited to his table, nevertheless Mr. Eustace made 


122 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


Dorison feel uncomfortable, so uncomfortable 
indeed that he seized the first opportunity to 
steal away. 

The episode greatly annoyed Dorison, first, 
because it foreshadowed an interruption in the 
relations he had but just established with the Eus- 
tace household, and, secondly, because he had stu- 
pidly evaded the very opportunity to induce Mr. 
Eustace to talk about his own relations to the elder 
Dorison, Cathcart had so earnestly desired him to 
make. 

That he could not falsify about himself in that 
house, above any other, was the excuse he offered 
to himself. Had he undertaken to present the 
same excuse to Cathcart, it is to be very much 
feared that that eminently practical and extremely 
logical gentleman would have bluntly said, he had 
already falsified in permitting himself to be intro- 
duced as Dudley, and that a little more falsifica- 
tion, in view of the end to be gained, would have 
done no more harm. As it was, he went to bed 
thoroughly disgusted with himself, and wholly dis- 
satisfied with the life he was leading. 

Quite early, that is to say early for the habits he 
had fallen into, he was aroused by a message from 
Cathcart, brought him by the officer who had 
shadowed Langdon, and who seemed permanently 
attached to the old detective. The message bade 
him go as soon as he could to No. — East Twen- 
tieth Street. 

Dorison had now been long enough in asso- 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE . 123 

ciation with the old man, not to be surprised at 
any message. He therefore hastened to comply, 
but yet wondering what it could portend, and 
what the house was to which he was called. 
Arriving at the address, his wonder was increased 
when he found it to be a brownstone front of the 
first class. Nor was his wonder lessened, on being 
admitted without question by the servant in attend- 
ance, and in a manner which indicated his coming 
was expected. A rapid glance assured him that 
he was in the interior of a private residence, and 
•one, also, which presented the evidences of wealth 
and refinement. His wonder grew with each 
moment, and he felt as if he was entering upon an 
adventure of interest. 

Without a word upon the part of the servant he 
was ushered into a richly furnished apartment 
upon the right of the hall. At first his eyes, not 
yet accustomed to the darkened room, could but 
dimly distinguish three figures, but he soon real- 
ized he was in the presence of an old lady, an 
elderly, clerical looking gentleman, and Cathcart. 

“ This is the young gentleman,” said Cathcart, 
rising as he entered. 

“ Mrs. Belknap, I introduce to you Mr. Dudley ; 
Mr. Carman, Mr. Dudley, the Rev. Mr. Car- 
man.” 

Motioning to Dorison to be seated, as if he were 
dispensing the hospitality of the house, in that 
masterful manner which seemed to make him the 
leader wherever he was placed, the old detective 


124 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


continued the remarks the entrance of Dorison 
had evidently interrupted. 

“ I regard this step,” he said, “ as most essential 
to my search, or I would not have asked so great 
a favor. And neither would I have presumed to 
ask it were I not certain I had convinced the Rev. 
Mr. Carman of its importance. His presence here 
is a guarantee of my good faith.” 

Dorison, who had taken his seat, did not make 
any remark, principally, perhaps, because none 
was addressed to him, and perhaps, for the other, 
that he did not know in what character he was 
presented to these people, and therefore waited for 
some cue from Cathcart. 

The old detective now turned abruptly to Dori- 
son and said : 

“ Mr. Dudley, that man Langdon, in whose iden- 
tity you have an interest for your own case, as I 
have with reference to his possible relations to 
the Farishes, enters Madison Square every morn- 
ing and crosses to Twenty-third Street. Through 
my urgency Miss Belknap has consented to accom- 
pany you to the Square to see if she can recognize 
the man you will point out to her. I will be in the 
Square at the same time.” 

Before Dorison could seek further information, 
a young lady, attired for the street, entered. Dori- 
son thought that an expression upon her face indi- 
cated she was not well pleased with the mission she 
was about to enter upon, but also thought he rec- 
ognized, with some self-flattery, that when he was 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE . 12 $ 

presented, the expression changed to one of satis- 
faction. At all events, she accepted him graciously. 

“Now, you cannot get there any too quickly,” 
said Cathcart, with his energetic manner, hurrying 
them off. 

In a moment more they were upon the street 
and walking in the direction of Fourth Avenue. 

Both were evidently under some constraint, feel- 
ing, as Dorison put it afterwards, as if they had been 
pitchforked together. 

“Perhaps, Miss Belknap,” he said, “you will do 
me the favor of explaining the purpose and object 
of this expedition.” 

The lady cast an upward glance of incredulity as 
she asked: 

“Do you not know?” 

“Beyond the fact that I have been imperatively 
summoned from my slumbers at an unconscionably 
early hour, and that I am to point out a man whom 
you are to say whether or not you recognize. I 
know absolutely nothing.” 

“Really,” replied the young lady, as fun and 
mischief twinkled in her eyes, causing Dorison to 
reflect that those organs were very pretty and attrac- 
tive, “really, our adventure is beginning to take on 
an air of mystery. Are you always so amiable that 
you obey summons without knowing the reason of 
them?” 

Dorison perceived she did not believe his asser- 
tion, and was desiring him to understand she 
thought he was mildly chaffing her. 


i 2 6 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

“I assure you what I say is true,” he returned 
earnestly. “You have no idea what an inexorable 
master you engage when you employ Mr. Cathcart. 
He has reduced me to such a state of submission 
that I run, fetch and carry at the least nod of his 
imperious head, or the least crook of his potent 
fingers.” 

“Do you mean to say,” she asked, her eyes danc- 
ing with merriment, “that he has not confided to 
you his purpose in sending us out.” 

“He has not confided anything tome. He rarely 
does,” replied Dorison lugubriously. “When my 
curiosity is excited slightly, he sits down on me 
crushingly with the remark that he confides his plans 
to no one, and I remain silent with fear and tremb- 
ling.” 

The little lady laughed outright at the mock con- 
fession of submission, and inquired : 

“Is not this connected with the search for the 
murderer of Mrs. Farish and poor Anne? And 
are you not interested in those poor creatures?” 

“As you, or any one else, reading an account of 
their shocking murder, might be,” he replied. 
“But I never even heard of them until after they 
were dead,” following what he supposed to be the 
clue given him by the old detective in his introduc- 
tion. 

“I cannot understand it,” said the young lady. 
“What relation do you bear to Mr. Cathcart’s 
search for the murderer?” 

“None.” 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 127 

“Why does he call upon you for that service 
you so much lament then?” she persisted. 

“Mr. Cathcart is conducting an inquiry in a 
matter which closely concerns and affects me — an 
inquiry which he has undertaken at my desire.” 

“Oh,” she cried merrily, “You have engaged a 
servant and found a master. But how does it touch 
the Farish murder.” 

Not knowing just what Cathcart had said before 
his arrival, he hardly knew how to reply. After a 
brief moment he said: 

“That I don’t know. Mr. Cathcart evidently 
thinks this Mr. Langdon has some relation to my 
affair. Does he also think he has relation to the 
Farish murder?” 

The young lady thawed somewhat on this remark. 
Why, Dorison could not imagine, and he could not 
take the time to consider. She replied, however: 

“I will enlighten you to the best of my ability. 
The day after the murder, Mr. Cathcart came to 
our house, sent there by our minister, Mr. Carman, 
in an endeavor to discover something about Mrs. 
Farish. You see, mother is one of the oldest mem- 
bers of our church and has always been very active 
in it. It was little, to be sure, that she could give 
him, but when talking of the reserved and lonely 
life the two lived, I recollected having seen Anne 
Farish, on three different occasions, walking in 
Union Square with a young man of dissipated 
appearance, but dressed in extreme fashion. This 
was noticeable, for upon each occasion she seemed 


128 the man with a thumb. 

to be in deep distress, and the young man moody and 
menacing in manner. Then again, it was the only 
instance ever known, when Anne Farish was seen 
in company with a young gentleman.” 

Long before she had .concluded, Dorison had 
grasped a sense of the meaning of their enterprise. 
Probably it was very stupid of him that he had for- 
gotten this episode, which Cathcart had made a 
strong connecting link in his chain of reasoning, but 
now it came back to him with great force and he 
perceived the importance a recognition would 
have. 

By this time they had reached the corner of 
Twenty-third Street and Broadway, and he sug- 
gested they should cross into the park. As they 
did so she concluded her statement. 

‘‘Therefore, a certain Mr. Langdon, with whose 
personal appearance you are familiar, has fallen 
under Mr. Cathcart’s suspicions, and we are bent on 
an errand of discovery — to see whether this Mr. 
Langdon is the one whom I saw walking with Anne 
Farish.” 

‘ ‘And are we to keep on walking until w'e meet 
this man,” asked Dorison lightly. 

“I presume so,” replied the young lady, ‘‘since 
we have fallen under the power of this man who 
you say is so inexorable a tyrant.” 

‘ ‘The edelweis blooms amid snow and ice,” replied 
Dorison, ‘‘so out of the hard task he sets has come 
the charm of this association.” 

The young lady did not reply to this finely drawn 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 


129 


and clumsy compliment, but asked with some anim- 
ation : 

“How do you like playing detective, Mr. 
Dudley?” 

The question was put ^so suddenly, that at first 
Dorison thought it was a trap laid for him — that 
she had penetrated the part he was playing. Her 
next remark, however, dispelled the suspicion. She 
said : 

“I enjoy it, it gives me an excitement I do not 
often have.” 

Dorison did not a second time give expression to 
the gallant remark that leaped to his lips; nor indeed 
did he have time, for the young lady put another 
question immediately: 

“Do you suppose Mr. Cathcart’s suspicions rest 
upon this man as the murderer?” 

“It is difficult to follow Mr. Cathcart’s mind,” 
he answered soberly. “He may be the very man 
he has under suspicion, or to identify him may be 
only a step in the maze he is following. Few will 
ever know until the end, just what his thoughts are. 
He is very skillful and wonderfully able. His 
sagacity, acuteness, and reasoning powers are 
marvelous to me.” 

“If,” said Miss Belknap, whose quick eyes had 
perceived Cathcart in an adjoining path, “if he 
imposes onerous and unwelcome duties upon others, 
he does not shrink from them himself. See ! There 
he is, also attending a ‘ladye faire.’ ” 

* * The plot thickens, ’ ’ remarked Dorison. ‘ ‘ Who 


13 ° THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

can she be? And what does he propose to do with 
her? Evidently she is a servant.” 

‘‘He does not appear to be an attentive cavalier, 
with his chin upon his breast and his hands in his 
vest-pockets,” commented Miss Belknap. 

‘‘He is profoundly thinking. When he carries 
his hands so, he is. And he is utterly unconscious 
of his habit.” 

They walked on, chatting easily. As they neared 
the corner of Twenty-sixth Street and Madison 
Avenue, Dorison saw the person they had come to 
observe approaching. He was passing in front of 
the Garden building. 

‘‘Cathcart has timed our walk well,” he said, 
‘‘There comes our man Langdon.” 

“Oh, indeed. Where?” 

“Immediately in front of the Garden doors.” 

“Are we to turn back?” 

“Better go forward and pass him slowly.” 

“Should we not indicate to Mr. Cathcart that the 
man is coming?’’ 

“By no means. He would not thank us for that. 
Do not fear he will miss the man he has routed us 
out so early to see.” 

By this time they had reached the crossing of 
Madison Avenue and Langdon had already stepped 
down on it from the other side. As he approached 
he fixed his eyes upon Dorison, scowling as he did 
so, thus enabling Miss Belknap to take a fair look 
at him without being observed. As soon as he had 
passed out of hearing she said : 


NARROWING THE CIRCLE. 13 1 

“That is the man. It is he without a question.” 

This with a tone admitting of no doubt. 

‘‘He recognized you, and does not regard you 
with favor,” she added. 

Dorison.told the young lady his encounter with 
him at the time of his rescue of Miss Eustace, con- 
cluding his tale with these words: 

“I presume no man can philosophically receive 
such humiliation from a lady, before other men, 
especially after he has boasted of a friendship be- 
tween them.” 

They had walked up Madison Avenue as he 
talked, but now Miss Belknap said : 

“Our task is done. I must return home.” 

“I hope I am not to take your remark as a dis- 
missal, but shall be permitted to accompany you to 
your door?” 

“Thank you,” said the lady, thus giving her con- 
sent. Arriving, they found Cathcart at the door 
viewing with high displeasure their slow approach. 

“I have been waiting for you at least ten min- 
utes,” he said sharply. 

The young lady resented his tone and replied: 

“That is to be regretted — by you.” 

But, impervious to the sarcasm, Cathcart said : 

“Well, is it the man?” 

“Yes.” 

“It was the same’ man?” His face lighted up. 

“Unquestionably. I would have known him 
among a hundred. He is noticeable enough.” 

Cathcart was evidently greatly pleased. 


1 3 2 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


“Come,” he cried, “we are getting on famously.” 

“Did you learn anything?” asked the young 
lady. 

“Much,” was the answer in a tone which did not 
encourage further questioning. 

Before the young lady, if she had desired, could 
inquire further, Cathcart said: 

“Now, Mr. Dudley, I must see you. Come with 
me.” 

Dorison lingered only to take polite leave of the 
lady, and followed the old detective down the steps. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 

u TT 7E have a good basis now,” exclaimed Cath- 
VV cart in high glee, as they walked to Fourth 
Avenue. “We know the owner of the glove; we 
know the walker in Union Square; and we know 
the caller at stated intervals. At first I supposed 
the three to be one. . This, however, turns out not 
to be the case. But if the owner of the glove is one 
man, the other two prove to be the same person. 
The work ought to go straight now. I have some- 
thing to show you.” 

Taking from his pocket a small package carefully 
wrapped in paper, he handed it to Dorison. It 
proved to be a lancet such as surgeons use, the han- 
dle of which was of tortoise-shell. 

“Examine that carefully,” he said, “burn it into 
your memory.” 

Dorison did as he was bid, even carefully not- 
ing the marks cut into the steel. 

“Well,” he said as he returned it 

“That is what killed the two women. 

“What,” cried Dorison, startled and surprised. 

“I have no doubt of it. That girl who was with 
me in the park was the servant of Mrs. Farish at the 
time she was killed. She gave me that lancet. She 


i33 


134 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


found it on the parlor floor under the door. She 
did not find it until after the Captain and I had 
concluded our search of the house, and did not pro- 
duce it at the coroner’s inquest because no one 
spoke of it. Lately her conscience has troubled 
her about it, and when I hunted her up, she gave 
it to me.” 

“What did you hunt her up for?” 

“To see whether she could recognize in Langdon 
the caller at stated intervals.” 

“Did she?” 

“Perfectly. I did not even have to direct her 
attention to him. As soon as she saw him she cried 
out, ‘That is the man.’ ” 

“Why do you want me to remember the lancet?” 

Cathcart glanced at Dorison, who thought he 
detected a fleeting expression of surprised con- 
tempt. 

“Young Eustace studied surgery, didn’t he?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I want to know if he has a case of instru- 
ments of which this lancet may be one. Find out 
if you can.” 

If the old detective saw the gesture of disgust and 
impatience Dorison made, he ignored it. 

“Now, one point more,” he continued. “Get 
Eustace to talk about Langdon upon the first oppor- 
tunity you have. Find out what he knows about 
him. There must be some reason for his haughty 
treatment of the fellow. I want to know what it is. ’ ’ 

They had reached Broadway as they talked, and 


New disappointments. 135 

continued as far as Twenty-third Street. On the 
corner Cathcart stopped to say : 

“What may be the outcome of the discoveries of 
this morning, it is difficult to predict. Something 
must come out of them. We are no longer groping 
in the dark. Langdon bore some relation to the 
Farish family, knew something about them, was asso- 
ciated, it is fair to presume, with their troubles. 
What he does know he must reveal.” 

“Do you mean to take him in hand immediately?” 

“No, not until I know more about his surround- 
ings and antecedents.” 

“Have you not already learned all you are likely 
to?” 

“I think not. Who is he? He came from Chi- 
cago three years ago. Notice this coincidence. 
Mr. Carman says Mrs. Farish sought him in trouble 
and distress three years ago.” 

“Yes, I see,” said Dorison eagerly, “and Miss 
Belknap saw this man with the daughter since that 
time.” 

“Precisely, and these stated calls only began since 
three years. There is another coincidence I want 
you to note. Eight years ago Mrs. Farish suddenly, 
giving no reason, dresses in mourning. Eightyears 
ago your father dies suddenly. Now another point. 
One of the slips of paper in your possession, writ- 
ten by your father, talks about the misdeeds of a 
boy named Harold. This man Langdon is called 
Harry by his associates. Do you see where we are 
slowly getting to? Now suppose — ” 


136 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


The old man stopped short. Dorison, greatly- 
interested, looked up to see the cause. The old 
man’s eyes were fixed upon an object some distance 
off. 

Searching about for that object, Dorison saw it 
was a man approaching from the park who engaged 
the attention of Cathcart. 

In a moment he recognized in the person the 
alert, sharp-eyed man who had had the mysterious 
exchange with Langdon, near the corner of Twenty- 
ninth Street and Third Avenue. 

The person approached directly on a line with 
them. Cathcart, stepping back into the shadow of 
an adjoining door, bade Dorison to stand in front 
and conceal him as much as possible. 

He did so, moving slightly, so that he could keep 
himself between the old detective and the man 
until he had passed on, going down Twenty-third 
Street. 

“Do you remember the story I told you of the 
mysterious exchange between Langdon and another 
on Twenty-ninth Street,’’ asked Dorison, after the 
man had passed by. 

“Yes, and what then?’’ sharply asked Cathcart. 

“That man was the other one.’’ 

Cathcart grasped Dorison’s arm with such a grip 
that the latter nearly cried out with pain. 

“Are you sure? Man, man, are you sure?”- 

“Sure, yes.’’ 

The old man fairly dragged Dorison after him as 
he hurriedly followed the man, who by this time had 


NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 137 

crossed Fifth Avenue and was apparently lost in 
the throng. 

Hurrying along, they saw him standing in front 
of a house, since transformed, where once another 
celebrated murder was committed. 

His head was bent to the ground, and he appeared 
to be debating with himself whether he should go 
on or turn back. 

Cathcart, dodging behind Dorison, muttered: 

“He saw me, and is trying to find out if I am 
following him.” 

Whether the old man was right or not, the man 
continued on his way, moving along at a rapid gait. 

“He is going to meet Langdon,” said Cathcart. 

“Who is this man!” asked Dorison, as they 
followed him. 

“His name is Pittston,” replied Cathcart. “Some 
four or five years ago I was on a bank robbery in 
Chicago. I made up my mind it had been done 
through connivance from the inside. Pittston was 
a clerk in the bank. My suspicions fell on him. 
The President, whose relative the clerk was, would 
not have it, and was indignant at the idea, for Pitts- 
ton lived with him. Persisting in my belief, I had 
so many obstacles thrown in my way that I gave up 
the job in disgust. They dismissed the clerk some 
time after. He knew all about it, for he assaulted 
me afterwards in the Palmer House, charging me 
with attempting to ruin him. I must locate him, 
for I have some facts that will make him open his 
mouth wide.” 


138 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


While he rapidly told this to Dorison, Sixth 
Avenue had been reached, and Pittston turned to 
go up it. 

Cathcart stopped on the corner. 

“You must do some shadow work now,” he said. 
“I am certain he is going to that restaurant to meet 
Langdon. You must go there and see if he does 
not meet him. Learn what you can. I will wait 
for you at the Hoffman House.” 

Dorison without reply went at once to the restau- 
rant designated as the one daily visited by Langdon. 
Entering, he sat himself at a table in the middle 
of the room, from which point he thought he could 
command a view of the room. It was an eating- 
saloon of the third or fourth class, though well kept 
and cleanly. A waiter bustled up and received an 
order for a substantial breakfast. 

As he looked about, Dorison could see neither 
Langdon nor Pittston, and feared that he had gone 
into the wrong place. Examination of the room, 
however, showed him an opening in the side wall — 
a passage way, making the adjoining room a part 
of the eating saloon. 

He rose from his chair to investigate, and walk- 
ing down the room, saw that the cashier’s desk was 
so placed as to command both rooms. On this desk 
was a mirror tilted forward so that the cashier could, 
with a slight turn of his head, observe each of 
the two rooms. Dorison also found that by tak- 
ing a seat at a table next the opening, he could see 
each occupant of the front part of the next room. 


NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 139 

He therefore changed to this table and immedi- 
atley discovered the pair he was in search of. Sitting 
at a table situated relatively as the one he was seated 
at, with only the wall between the two, Langdon 
and Pittston were deeply engaged in conversation. 

Pittston was telling a tale which evidently gave 
great annoyance to his companion. Langdon 
frowned, and his manner indicated a considerable 
degree of alarm. He listened intently until Pittston 
had finished, and fell into a profound study, from 
which from time to time he emerged to ask a ques- 
tion, when, being answered, he relapsed again into 
thought. 

In the meantime Dorison’s breakfast was served 
and eaten. He had not heard a word of the conver- 
sation^ the two he had come to watch, nor did there 
seem to be any likelihood that he would be able to 
hear any of it. He had, however, established two 
facts. Pittston had sought Langdon as Cathcart 
had foreseen, and confidential relations existed 
between them. Believing he could do no more, 
he was about to depart, when the street door of 
the room he was in opened and the officer the old 
detective used as a shadow, entered. 

Dorison beckoned to him. 

“Do you want to see me,” he asked, as the officer 
came to him. 

“The old man wants me to follow and report a 
man he thinks is here with Langdon,” was the 
whispered reply. 

Dorison pointed to the mirror. 


140 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“Is that the man?” asked the officer. 

“Yes — the one talking to Langdon. Now get 
away so they will not see you talking to me.’’ 

The officer was not a moment too soon in leaving, 
for the pair in the other room rose from their table 
and went to the cashier’s desk. 

Turning indifferently as he leaned on the desk, 
Langdon saw Dorison and started with surprise, 
scowling at him meanwhile. Dorison maintained 
his composure, conducting himself as if he did not 
recognize him as the man he had met that morn- 
ing. 

Calling the waiter, Dorison gave him something 
more than the amount of his check, and without 
waiting for the change, donned his top-coat and 
went out, conscious that Langdon had directed the 
attention of his companion to him, Dorison. 

As the door closed on Dorison, Pittston said ; 

“Hanged if I don’t think that very man stood 
close to the one I was telling you of.’’ 

“Who, Cathcart?’’ 

“Yes.” 

“Then you were followed.’’ 

“Nonsense! He was not talking to Cathcart, 
only standing near him. I tell you I was not fol- 
lowed; I stopped to see.’’ 

“What else but to follow you brought such a swell 
as that here — a man who either breakfasts at ‘Del’s’ 
or the Hoffman every morning.” 

This had been said within the hearing of the 
cashier, who asked: 


NE IV D 1 SA PPOIN TMEN TS. 14 1 

“Talking about the man who has just gone out, 
Harry?” 

“Yes.” 

“He changed his seat,” said the cashier, “from 
the middle of the room, and seemed to be watching 
you by that mirror.” 

“The devil!” cried Pittston. “Could he do 
that?” 

“Try it!” laughed the cashier. 

The two quickly satisfied themselves that, sitting 
where Dorison did, watching them at their table was 
an easy matter. 

“A curious thing occurred,” continued the 
cashier, when they returned to his desk. ‘ ‘A man 
came in whom your man recognized right away, and 
beckoned to him. They whispered together, and 
then your man pointed to the mirror. The other 
man went out right away.” 

“By — ” cried Langdon, with an oath, “you were 
followed.” 

“I am afraid so,” replied Pittston gloomily. 

The two walked to the street door, where Lang- 
don halted to say: 

“There are two things to do. You must walk as 
straight as a die and do no business, go nowhere 
you are afraid any one should see you, and keep 
away from me. That’s the first thing. Next, when 
you go from here, I will watch to see if you are fol- 
lowed by anybody. I suspect that to be the game. 
If you are. I will let you know. Not hearing from 
me means you were not followed.” 


142 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


“Who is this fellow anyhow,” asked Pittston. 

“I don’t know, except that his name is Dudley. 
He’s a howling swell and goes with the best. 
The first time I saw him he saved a young lady of 
my acquaintance from being run over. She didn’t 
know him then, but now he’s as thick as peas with 
her brother, and he goes to the house often. This 
very morning I met him in Madison Square walk- 
ing with a stunning-looking girl. I hate him and 
would like to dose him, especially since I find him 
interfering in my affairs.” 

“Mine, I should say,” said Pittston with a laugh. 

“No, mine,” persisted Langdon. 

“I don’t see it. If he followed any one he fol- 
lowed me.” 

“That may be,” said Landgon impatiently. 
“But it all comes back on me. I have good reason 
for saying so, since I know he is such a great friend 
of young Eustace. That is what makes me so 
uneasy — this following of you.” 

“I don’t see the connection.” 

“See here. Cathcart can’t be following you for 
the Chicago affair, can he? That affair is closed 
up, and you have told me you were protected in it 
by your uncle for the sake of the family.” 

“Yes; that’s so.” 

“Well, if you were not followed for that, you 
were for something, weren’t you?” 

“Yes, there was some reason of course.” 

“Now, here it is. They’re after me, and because 
they followed you I am afraid they have got onto 


NEW DISAPPOINTMENTS. 143 

the business we have together, and want to strike 
at me through that. Do you tumble now?” 

“ I see. It is serious.” Pittston was thoughtful. 
“ Drop the whole business for a while.” 

“ By ,” cried Langdon with another oath. 

“Its dropped for us. My man is kicking, and 
refuses to go any further in it. I was going to put 
the screws on him to find out what is the meaning 
of his sudden independence. But this thing comes 
up and it won’t do. I don’t know but what he’s 
been giving the snap away.” 

“ I thought you had him so tight that he had to 
do what you told him ? ” 

“ So would any one think who knew what I have 
got on him,” replied Langdon, angrily. “ But now 
he is doing the high and mighty, and swears 
if I push him any further he’ll kick the whole 
bucket over and land me in jail for life, even if it 
ruins him. He says he’d rather die than be the 
slave he has been to me for the last three years.” 

“ But can he ? ” asked Pittston. 

“ He can, if he knows something I did some 
years ago. But, by Heaven! I’m certain he don’t — 
he can’t. The people who knew about it are all 
dead. I’m playing him to know what card he’s got 
up his sleeve. While I’m playing him we must 
drop the business. Give the word that way.” 

They went into the street, Langdon remaining at 
the door. Pittston first walked to the corner of 
Twenty-third Street, and turning came back and 
went in the direction of Twenty-fourth Street, 


144 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


As he disappeared, Langdon muttered : 

“ The chase ended when they ran him down to 
me. He is not followed.” 

At that very moment the officer was close on the 
heels of Pittston as he walked up Twenty-fourth 
Street to Broadway. 

Dorison had gone to the Hoffman House, where 
he met CathcarX, to. whom he related what had 
occurred. 

“ I am more than satisfied that Pittston recog- 
nized me,” said Cathcart. “ But that is a matter 
easily overcome. If he recognized me, he saw you. 
That is not so easily overcome. Hereafter we must 
not meet openly. We are getting to the end 
pretty fast. 

“ I hope so,” rejoined Dorison doubtfully, “ but 
I frankly confess the end seems as far off as ever 
it did.” 

“ Possibly it does to you. Nevertheless the lines 
are coming together with tolerable rapidity. One 
day, when you least expect it, I will call upon you 
to witness the falling of the blow.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 


LOWERING SKIES. 

T HE events of the morning gave Dorison food 
for thought. After Cathcart had departed he 
dawdled about the hotel as he endeavored to extract 
some intelligence from these events, serving to jus- 
tify the confidence displayed by the old detective 
that the end was in sight. 

He reviewed his life during the six weeks elaps- 
ing since his return to the city of his birth, and 
carefully went over the events connected with the 
search with which he was identified. The result 
was not satisfactory. Everything was fragmentary. 
There was a bit here and a bit there which, con- 
sidered by themselves, seemed important and signifi- 
cant, but when he attempted to put them together 
they appeared disconnected and inconsistent, even 
contradictory. 

“Whether this is due,” he said aloud, as he sat 
and pondered, ‘ ‘to the miserly and fragmentary 
manner in which Cathcart deals out his information, 
or, whether it is the exact condition of the case, I 
am utterly at a loss to determine. I know, however, 
it is utterly unsatisfactory, and unless something 
more positive turns up within the next fortnight I 
will throw up my commission. So far as I am able 
145 


146 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

to see not one step has been made, nor one single 
fact gathered that brings us nearer to the end, the 
accomplishment of which is the only justification 
for my being involved in it at all.” 

He got up and walked into the street. As he 
went up Broadway he said : 

“What I will do, will be to see Mr. Nettleman 
and have a talk with him. That much is due him 
and I have not seen him for two weeks. I’ll do it 
this very afternoon. The life I am leading is un- 
bearable. ” 

He did not go that afternoon, however, for on 
reaching his rooms he found his friend Eustace in 
possession. 

“I have been waiting so long for you,” he cried, 
‘‘that I have come to believe these apartments are 
mine. Do you know, I like them better than my 
own.” 

‘‘Then perhaps you may obtain them,” said Dori- 
son. 

‘‘Why? What does that mean?” 

‘‘It means, Eustace, that you see a disgusted and 
contemptible creature before you. I am half per- 
suaded to cut this life and go back to Dubuque.” 

‘‘Something has gone wrong, Jtia chere. The 
blues, eh? I have them sometimes myself.” 

‘‘My trouble is far greater than the blues,” said 
Dorison, throwing himself at full length upon the 
lounge, and looked at Eustace fixedly for some time. 

‘‘I wonder, Charley,” he said at length, ‘‘if there 
will be a time when you will regard me with bitter- 


LOWERING SKIES. 


147 


ness and contempt — when you will never be able to 
think of me without loathing and horror.” 

“What condition of mind are you in to-day?” 

“The confessional, although I shall make no con- 
fession. Perhaps all these dark and gloomy vapors 
will pass away and the bright sunbeams play* over 
us both. Whether any sunlight, however, will ever 
irradiate my life again, I greatly doubt. Charley 
my boy, I am a monomaniac. I have but one pur- 
pose in life and to that I am bending everything, 
sacrificing everything- -home, comfort, honor and 
friends. Beware of me! I am not what I seem on 
the surface. During my life I have never met any 
one of either sex to whom I have been so much 
attracted as I have been to you — no one of whom I 
have been so fond. Yet, my boy, heed me. If 
you should run counter to this life purpose of mine, 
so completely have I become its slave, I believe I 
would sacrifice you. I say again, beware of me. 
Hold me off at arm’s length. Do not give me a 
single advantage. God knows that when I am in 
the mood I am now, I pray fervently that the friend- 
ship we have formed within the past few weeks may 
ripen with our days, strengthen with our years, and 
be still hale when our heads are gray. But I tell 
you, old man,” and he rose from the lounge in his 
earnestness, “the day is coming when that friend- 
ship will be put to as severe a test as friendship ever 
was. ” 

Eustace, who had regarded Dorison seriously, 
said: 


148 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“I think you are in a frame of mind which either 
is the result of a serious physical derangement, or 
great mental tribulation. If it is the latter, and I 
apprehend it is, I advise you to take immediate 
steps toward remedy. And in such cases, I take 
it, the best remedy is to pour out your confidences 
to some friend you can trust.” 

‘‘There are some things that must be borne 
alone,” replied Dorison with a sigh. ‘‘Mine is one. 
For eight years I have borne them — ” 

“And alone, nursing them,” interrupted Eus- 
tace. ‘‘That is just it.” 

‘‘Borne, they.must be, alone to the end,” replied 
Dorison. ‘‘Did you ever have a serious secret 
influencing your life and nature, which you would 
not reveal lest it brought you the contempt and hor- 
ror of your friends —those you thought the most of?’ ’ 

Eustace’s face flushed red. 

‘‘Yes,” he replied, falteringly, ‘‘which, if I 
thought it would become public I would kill myself 
from shame and disgrace.” 

Dorison heard these words with his heart bound- 
ing against his ribs. 

‘‘Is this tantamount to a confession?” he asked 
himself. 

Shaken and agitated, he walked to the window 
and looked out. Then, turning impulsively to Eus- 
tace, he cried out : 

‘‘Away with these thougths! I’ll have none of 
them. What brought you here to put me into this 
condition?” 


LOWERING SKIES. 


149 


“I did not come here to put you into any condi- 
tion, nor did I, for you were in your present mood 
when you entered. What I did come here for was 
to ask you what occurred between you and th z pater 
last evening,” replied Eustace. 

“I think your father’s treatment last night has 
something to do with my present frame of mind. 
You see,” he laughed bitterly. ‘‘I am bound to 
put it on some one of your family. To answer 
your question, — I don’t know. Your father was 
agreeable and pleasant to me as one could wish dur- 
ing the early part of the dinner. He has discovered 
in me some strong resemblance to an old friend, and 
attempted to supply me with a new set of relatives. 
The attempt involved an inquiry into my family 
relations. I am not always a master of my own 
moods, and I took the caprice to object to talking 
about them before strangers. Probably I was not 
as sensible of the honor done me by a gentleman 
of the distinction of your father, in manifesting an 
interest in my surroundings, as I should have been, 
and gave offense by my evasion of the inquiry. If 
it be not that, I know not what it is. At all events 
he froze to me.” 

“ Yes, I noticed he did,” replied Eustace. 
“However, if that is all, the matter will be soon 
righted. Now my next reason for calling. I am 
thinking of giving a small theater party next Mon- 
day night, with a snack afterwards at Del’s. Will 
you be one ? ” 

“ With pleasure.” 


15 ° THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 

“ Will you escort my sister — Evelyn, you know ? ” 

“ I am honored.” 

“ And not frighten her with a gloomy outburst 
and warn her to beware of you ? ” 

Dorison blushed and smiled. 

“ I will endeavor to justify her brother’s con- 
fidence.” 

For a little time there was silence between them, 
when Dorison suddenly said : 

“ Eustace, the first night I ever saw you, a man 
named Langdon approached you. You treated him 
with considerable hauteur. Who is the fellow ? ” 

The young man turned a sharp, inquiring look 
upon Dorison ; his face flushed, and a vexed 
expression came into his eyes. 

“ Why do you ask ? He cannot be a friend of 
yours ? ” 

“ No, not even an acquaintance, but I have rea- 
son for knowing more about him than I do.” 

“ The fellow was somewhat offensive to my sister 
Evelyn, the day you saved her from being run over, 
I think.” 

“ It did not appear to me that Miss Eustace 
relished his assumption of friendship.” 

“ I should think not,” replied Eustace, indig- 
nantly. He looked out of the window for a few 
moments, Dorison waiting for him to continue. 
After a while he said : 

“ I don’t know much about the fellow, Dudley. 
To begin at the beginning, this is all I know. 
Something more than a year ago my younger sister, 


LOWERING SKIES. 


IS* 

then about fifteen, was taken seriously ill and our 
regular family physician was unable to do anything 
for her, a fact he acknowledged himself, and sug- 
gested the calling in of other physicians. That 
was done, but she continued to decline, and both 
mother and father were nearly frantic. When she 
was at her worst, and when the physicians were 
despairing, some one called father’s attention to a 
young physician named Fassett, who was making 
marvelous cures. Our own physicians, having 
admitted their inability to cope with the strange 
difficulty, could not object to his being called. He 
was, and declared the difficulty to be principally a 
nervous one, and began a treatment diametrically 
opposed to that she had been under. Notwith- 
standing the protests of her other physicians 
against the treatment, she improved steadily. In 
the course of a few months she was completely 
restored to health. Of course you can understand 
that under the circumstances our people were 
grateful to Dr. Fassett, and though father said 
that from the first he appreciated that Dr. Fassett 
was far from being a gentleman, he was loaded 
with attention by our people ; he had saved the pet 
of the household when she was given up to die. 
Then mother fell sick and Evelyn, and they were 
both brought triumphantly through by Dr. Fassett, 
who is undeniably a skillful physician, but as well 
a course, vulgar man. No one can get upon more 
familiar terms with a family than its physician, 
and one day, without asking consent or permission, 


IS 2 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

he introduced into the family this fellow Langdon — 
an insufferable cad, vulgar, ill-bred, dissipated and 
coarse. Without request the fellow began to call, 
until finally orders were given the servants to say 
no one was at home when he called. Father tells 
me he had quite a scene with Dr. Fassett over this, 
and was obliged to tell him that his position as 
medical adviser to the family put him, father, under 
no social obligations, and that if, in addition to the 
fees he exacted, he demanded social recognition for 
all of his friends, much as it was to be regretted, 
the relations between them must cease.” 

“ But that did not end the persecutions. Lang- 
don seemed to have secret sources of informa- 
tion, and turned up at the theaters and other public 
places where our folks went, and forced himself 
upon them ; more than that, waylaid my sisters on 
the street. This was going on when I returned 
from Europe and was told of it. So, the first time 
it occurred when I was near, I took Langdon aside 
and forbade him to speak to my sisters or mother 
again, promising him a jolly good thrashing if he 
ever presumed to do so. Hang the cad, if he had 
shown fight then, or had not subsequently 
attempted to ingratiate himself with me, I would 
have had some respect for him.” 

Eustace hesitated, as if he had something more 
to say, and Dorison waited for him to continue. 

“ Hang it all, Dudley, I think Eli tell you the 
whole story. I could not to one I regarded less as 
a friend than I do you. The annoying thing about 


LOWERING SKIES. 


153 


it all is yet to come, and is to a certain degree 
humiliating. The only excuse lies in the extreme 
youth of my sister Dorothy, who is but sixteen 
now. Of course she was grateful to Dr. Fassett, 
and he has naturally obtained a considerable influ- 
ence over her. She began first with taking up his 
quarrel against the family and espousing the cause 
of this fellow Langdon. I -am quite certain that 
Fassett has been endeavoring to make interest with 
Dorothy for Langdon. At all events, I found out 
that Langdon was managing to see her alone, and 
she — foolish and romantic creature — began to be 
interested in him. He was bent on mischief. 
His desire was, of course, to win and marry her, 
and force himself on the family. This is our 
secret, and the proof of my friendship for you is 
that I give it to you.” 

“ Thank you,” said Dorison simply. 

“ We have taken steps to prevent this thing. 
Hard as it is, we have had to keep a strict surveil- 
lance upon Dorothy for some time now, and in the 
spring the family will go to Europe to escape the 
fellow. But this is not my way of dealing with 
him or with Fassett. The latter I would deny the 
house, and the former I would deal with vigorously, 
but everything is bended to prevent a scandal. 
Who the fellow is, or what he is, I don’t know. He 
has a wonderful influence over Fassett, -and, in my 
judgment, it is not through superior intellect or 
force of character, for he is in both deficient, but 
through the possession of some secret in Fassett’s 


iS4 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


life. Of course that is mere supposition, and I 
base it wholly on the manner in which he treats 
Fassett and the latter’s subserviency, so foreign to 
his nature. Fassett says he has known him for 
years, and that he was a fellow student of his at a 
western medical college, where he failed to take 
his degree by withdrawing just before the close of 
his term. I’ve told you all I know about the fel- 
low, except that his associates here in town seem 
to be thoroughly disreputable.” 

“I have no knowledge of him,” said Dorison, 
‘‘except that he touches an affair in which I have 
some interest, and was therefore desirous of knowing 
more — an affair, let me say, lest I be charged with 
not giving confidence for confidence, which really 
belongs to another person and of which I have no 
right to speak without his permission. By the way, 
did not Rushnell tell me that you were a medical 
student?” 

“Student,” repeated Eustace, in mock indigna- 
tion, “Behold an M.D. Dr. Eustace, at your serv- 
ice — I have my degree. Yes I am an Esculapian. 
I devoted myself to the surgical branch, but I have 
never practiced. Long before I attained my degree 
I abandoned all idea of it. I threw my parchment 
aside with my books — never assumed my title. 
Why, I never bought an' instrument, never even 
owned one.” 

He had answered the very question Dorison was 
leading up to, before it was asked. 

Shortly after he went away, and Dorison, re- 


LO WERING SKIES. * 5 5 

dining in his easy arm-chair, said, talking to him- 
self: 

“Cathcart’s theory was that these murders were 
committed by a tall, slim man with brown hair, whose 
hands were large, knuckles and joints prominent 
and thumb disproportionately long and large, who 
was a dandy in dress and who possessed a certain 
degree of surgical skill. He suspects Charley Eus- 
tace and Harry Langdon. The latter is tall, slim, 
with brown hair, small and well-shaped hand, a 
dandy, a caddish dandy in dress, and has a certain 
degree of surgical skill; the former is short, stout, 
and light haired; has large hands, prominent joints 
and knuckles, a disproportionately large thumb, is 
a dandy, a gentlemanlike dandy in dress, and has 
a certain degree of surgical skill, though he never 
owned a surgical instrument. Bah! Take your 
choice. Detective skill is a humbug. Cathcart is 
a fraud, and you, Dorison, are a fool for submitting 
longer to his tomfoolery. Chase it as long as you 
will, the rehabilitation of your name is the ignis 
fatuus of your life. And poor, fluttering fool that 
you are, you will continue to pursue it until death 
gives you the only relief you will ever have. 

He picked up a book and fell asleep over it. 


CHAPTER XV. 


CRUSHING A REBELLION. 

I N no better frame of mind, Dorison awoke. Yet 
he remembered the old detective’s instructions 
to report as soon as he had anything to tell. So he 
set out, and in time found Cathcart in his rooms in 
Bond Street, busy with papers he pushed aside to 
listen to his visitor. 

When the tale was finished, the old man made 
no comment, but paced up and down his room with 
his hands in his vest-pockets, the young man in the 
meantime sitting by with clouded brow, twirling his 
hat in his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. 
Finally, straightening up, he said : 

“Don’t you think tomfoolery ought to end and 
real work begin?’’ 

Had the old detective been struck in the face 
unexpectedly, he could not have given a greater 
start. 

“What do you mean?” he demanded savagely. 

“I mean I am tired of this humbug and mystery. 
More than two months ago we began a search with 
two objects in view. One, to discover the murderer 
of Mrs, Farish and her daughter, the other to dis- 
cover the mystery of my father’s unfinished letter. 
You readily enough builded a theory, and it amounts 
to practically nothing. You set out upon the idea 
156 


CRUSHING A REBELLION . 


iS7 


that a tall, slim dandy with brown hair and a peculiar 
hand and thumb, who possessed surgical skill, was 
the murderer. Search has determined two men -who 
divided these characteristics between them. One 
is a tall, slim dandy with brown hair, who has surgi- 
cal skill with small well-shaped hands. The other 
has the peculiarity of hands and thumbs but is a 
short, stout, fair dandy, with surgical skill.” 

“Well?” said Cathcart sternly. 

‘T am tired of balancing one against the other; 
I am tired of this mystery; I am tired of the way 
you keep me in the dark, doling meagre glimpses of 
the case. So far as I am able to see, not a fact has 
been gained, not a step has been made toward the 
.end I have in view and which is the only justifica- 
tion for jny being in the case. I have become a 
mere puppet in your hands and am living a life of 
hypocrisy and falsehood, the very reverse of every- 
thing honorable, without results, except to an end in 
which I have no special or personal interest.” 

“I believe you take my money for the work you 
do. Have I complained?” sarcastically observed 
Cathcart. 

‘‘To earn the money I receive is not the object 
of my putting myself subject to your orders. All 
I do receive is expended in this business as you 
direct. The chief, and I may say the only, pay I 
look to is the explanation of my father’s letter. 
But for that I would be out of this business in a 
moment. The employment is foreign to my habits, 
my nature, and my tastes.” 


* 5 ^ THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

Cathcart looked darkly at Dorison for a long time 
while busy with his thoughts. 

“I have been considered for many years a master 
of my art,” he said at length. “It is a very long 
time since I permitted any one, either to complain 
or to criticise, as you have done. The reason why 
I have done so in your case must chiefly be because 
I have taken a genuine liking to you, and because 
I have had a real sympathy for your extraordinary 
case. If I don’t throw you over now and devote 
myself wholly to the murder case, it must be because 
I see that you are morbid over your own wrongs and 
have a better excuse for impatience and despon- 
dency than most men who have attempted to 
complain and criticise to me. My own personal 
concern in this matter is wholly a matter qf pride. 
I desire to round off a career of prominence and 
distinction in the West, with a triumph in the East. 
This is probably the last inquiry I shall ever be 
engaged in, and I desire to win the glory of succeed- 
ing where the Eastern detectives have failed. 

“Now, so much by way of preface. My own 
belief is that I could have yesterday , brought the 
murder question to an issue, were it not for the fact 
that your own matter was not advanced to a stage 
I desired. I believe the germs of that unfinished 
letter and the murders are to be found in the one 
condition of affairs. 

“Listen to me and be ashamed. I have done 
little in the murder case but direct your move- 
ments. You have put into my hands the material 


CRUSHING A REBELLION . 


159 


by which I am certain that within the next twenty- 
four hours I could put into custody the murderer, 
were I to devote myself to the effort. For the past 
two months I have labored hard, as hard as I ever 
did in any two months of my life, and — ” he 
paused to give the effect to his words, “nine-tenths 
of that time has been devoted to your affair. You 
think no fact has been gained. I know more at this 
moment of your father’s life and business than you 
ever did. I have made the friendship of your 
father’s executor. I have won him as your friend, 
instead of your enemy, as he has been for eight years. 
I have persuaded him to go to work with a belief in 
your innocence. He is a conscientious man and is 
enthusiastic in his effort to repair the wrong he has 
done you. I have examined the old books of 
the firm of which your father was so long the head, 
and have run down every item of personal expendi- 
ture I suspected might possibly have a bearing on 
your affair. I have turned over every scrap of 
paper in the possession of your father’s executor, and 
I have conversed with nearly every man yet alive 
with whom your father did business. I have found, 
and to a great extent know, the cause of the dissipa- 
tion of your father’s great property. The work is 
not completed. When you came in, I was examining 
reports the mail brought me, which advance me 
another long step on the way. And this moment I 
can account for nearly every cent, except one block 
of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. This 
money was not lost in speculations or bad invest- 


i6o 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


ments. It was actually spent, deliberately expended 
in pursuance of a deliberate intention, after having 
been raised by hypothecation of stock and securities. 
What was that purpose or intention? And why so 
deliberately and persistently pursued? I have only 
within the hour gotten to a point where I could 
pursue that part of the inquiry with any degree of 
intelligent effort or with hopes of success. 

“I hold that one reason of the great success I 
have had in my business, has been largely due to 
two qualities I have possessed. First, the ability 
to keep my plans to myself, and, secondly, the 
ability with which I could command loyal assistance 
without the assistants knowing more of their work 
than I desired them to know. The information I 
possess has come to me in fragments, and here in 
this chamber I have pieced them together. 

“Now then, having said this much, I shall say no 
more until I am ready. If you are not satisfied you 
are at liberty to retire from the case. I shall not 
conceal from you, that if you do, it will be at a time 
when you can be of the most use to me, and that 
your retirement will be the source of great delay 
and embarassment. But I shall not ask you to 
remain; you shall be absolutely free to choose.” 

Dorison had been intently listening to the old 
man, and with no little shame. He was confounded 
to hear that the old man had been devoting so much 
time to his own affair and had learned so much. 
He was also greatly impressed with the masterful- 
ness of the old detective and felt that he himself 


CRUSHING A REBELLION . 


161 


appeared as a fretful, impatient, unintelligent school 
boy. So he said quite humbly: 

“ I shall not retire.” 

‘‘Very well. But you must understand that I 
must have unquestioning obedience.” 

“You shall have it.” 

‘‘Very good. Now, I may say to you. I never 
was engaged in a case where the lines cross each 
other in so confusing a manner, nor did I ever have 
two cases I was working together wherein the per- 
sons in each case have such strange relations to each 
other without bringing the critical point of each 
case together. Here is an instance. We have 
young Eustace under suspicion of being in some- 
way connected with that murder; I believe your 
father, dead as he is, is in some way connected with 
it ; I have reason to believe that the older Eustace 
was at one period of his life intimately connected 
with your father’s affairs; I am certain the elder 
Eustace in no way touches the Farish murder. You 
perceive how .necessary it is to maintain a clear 
hand and move slowly in this almost inextricable 
tangle of the two cases. Here are my instructions 
for your movements. I want you to engage the 
elder Eustace in a conversation as to your father. 
The way is open. You told me he had discovered 
a great resemblance between your father and your- 
self.” 

‘‘A coolness has sprung up between the elder 
Eustace and myself,” said Dorison. 

“Indeed, — how?” 


162 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“Over that very resemblance.” 

The old man evinced increased interest, and 
demanded to know everything, the very -smallest 
point. Thus urged, Dorison gave him a minute 
and careful* history of the incident. 

When the recital was finished the old detective 
thrust his hands into his vest-pockets, and dropping 
his chin upon his breast, closed his eyes in thought 
for a long' time. When he spoke it was rather as if 
he were thinking aloud than addressing Dorison. 

“When Eustace was comparatively a young man,” 
he said, “he endangered his fortune by extrava- 
gance and bad management. Your father came to 
his aid, took charge of his estate, gave him financial 
aid, lent him the great power of his credit, and hav- 
ing straightened out his affairs obtained a diplo- 
matic appointment abroad for him, so that the 
ravages in his fortune might be repaired; in other 
words, saved him from ruin. In return, Eustace 
did some great service for Dorison. What it's 
nature was I cannot determine. Nor will Eustace 
tell as intimate a friend as he has. Perhaps he may 
think idle curiosity prompted the question — that 
he would tell if sufficient reasons were given him. 
At all events the career Dorison set him on has 
resulted in his living abroad many more years than 
here, since that time. Can it be — can that be the 
line to follow? If it should be that, that — but no, he 
was abroad when Dorison died — had been for sev- 
eral years. But would that have been any reason 
why it should not be so.” 


CRUSHING A REBELLION . 


163 


He relapsed again into a brown study, from which 
Dorison waited for him to emerge, confused and 
perplexed by the maze in which he found himself, 
and unable to perceive even a glimmer of light. 

“I regret,” said Cathcart rousing up, ‘‘that this 
misunderstanding has arisen. It would have been 
avoided if you had followed my instructions obedi- 
ently. You did ngt play the part you yourself 
deliberately chose, before we came into contact. 
If you assume a role you must play the whole of it, 
or necessarily fail. You choose to pretend to be 
some one else, yet the first time you are seriously 
questioned you refuse to carry out your assumption. 
That was foolish. Your lie would not have been 
any greater in denying your paternity in words, than 
it was when you permitted yourself to be introduced 
under a name intended to deny that paternity. 
How can you repair the blunder? Have you quar- 
reled with young Eustace?” 

‘‘No,” replied Dorison. ‘‘He asked me this 
afternoon to a theater party next Monday and to 
escort his sister.” 

“Urn. This is Thursday. Well, seek an inter- 
view with the elder Eustace as soon $s you can, to 
repair the blunder.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DAYS. 

D ORISON saw nothing of Cathcart for several 
days. In the mean time no opportunity was 
presented him to have an interview with the elder 
Mr. Eustace, so that he might clear up the mis- 
understanding. 

Monday came, and in pursuance of his engage- 
ment he went to the Eustace residence to escort 
Evelyn to the theater. He was distinctly conscious, 
on arriving, of an air of constraint in his reception, 
though so far as the young lady herself was con- 
cerned, he could see no difference in the gracious- 
ness of her manner. 

At first, he was disposed to attribute everything to 
his imagination, until he found that Mr. Eustace 
was in an adjoining room, the doors of which were 
open, and did not come forward to meet him. 

“I shall be very frank with you, Mr. Dudley,” 
said Miss Eustace, as they drove from the door. 
“You have offended father in some way.” 

“I wish you would carry your frankness further,” 
said Dorison in return, “and tell me in what way. 
I am conscious of his change of demeanor, without 
being certain as to its cause.” 

“The strange thing is that while he shows his 
164 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 165 

displeasure he refrains from telling why, though 
Charley urged him to do so.” 

“I can give no other reason than the one I gave 
your brother.” 

“I know, Charley told me. But it is not that. 
Charley urged that to father, but he dismissed it 
with a wave of his hand, as not being of the slightest 
importance. Of course he could not find anything 
in that for displeasure, and if he did, would not 
refrain from telling if it were so. There is some- 
thing else.” 

“ Then I am utterly at a loss. Believe me, Miss 
Eustace, I am too fond of your brother’s friendship 
and too sensible of the kindness shown me within 
your household, not to quickly seek, with an 
apology, to repair any offense I may have given, if 
I knew wherein it lay. I really hoped that before 
this it would have been apparent, that I should 
have been enlightened either by you or your 
brother.” 

“ It is something serious, Mr. Dudley, and at 
one time Charley thought his invitations would 
have to be recalled.” 

“ So serious as that,” said Dudley, thoroughly 
understanding that in this tactical way Miss Eustace 
had made him understand her father had opposed 
further reception of himself at the house, and had 
yielded his position only upon being convinced that 
persistence on his part would result in embarass- 
ment to his son. 

“ He has come to believe I am John Dorison 


1 66 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


figuring under an assumed name — the disgraced 
son,” he said to himself, “ and - not being certain 
does not wish to give it as a reason.” 

The thought troubled him, and he was not con- 
soled by the other one occurring to him, that he 
had had, in the family difference, the active par- 
tisanship of Evelyn and Charley. The affair 
sobered him so that it was with difficulty that he 
could shake off his despondency. 

He made the effort with these words : 

“ I will make a serious effort to discover the 
cause, Miss Eustace, and shall do all that is proper 
for a man to do under the circumstances.” 

He was certain that this assurance gave the 
young lady much satisfaction, and she became quite 
gay during the rest of the short drive. 

At theater they found the rest of the party, and 
in the pleasure of the moment Dorison forgot the 
unpleasant impression that had been put upon him. 
He found the young lady a delightful companion, 
and thought she carried about her the same charm 
of personality possessed by her brother. She was 
endowed with that quality, rarely possessed by a 
woman — a keen appreciation of humor, and he 
himself, for that evening, was subject to one of those 
alternations men of a melancholy and despondent 
nature are at times. His gayety swept up to high 
spirits, dangerously near to boisterousness, and he 
was conscious of a marked endeavor to impress 
himself favorably upon the lady who was his com- 
panion. 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 167 

He talked much at the supper after the enter- 
tainment, which was not his wont, and what was 
better, talked well, with a gay, capricious, and 
whimsical fancy ; told humorous stories, showered 
witticisms without stint, which were entirely unpre- 
meditated, and carried all with him into his own 
wild spirits. 

“ Upon my word, Dudley ! ” cried young Eus- 
tace, “ I never knew you in such a mood before. 
If I had not been watching your glass and noticed 
your moderation, I would have supposed you were 
obtaining your inspiration from wine.” 

“You forget that I promised you solemnly that 
I would not frighten your sister with despondency. 
What would you ? I have not a large assortment 
of moods at my disposal. Either deep despond- 
ency or high gayety. To-morrow I will have a wet 
towel arouhd my heart while you have it around 
your head.” 

“ That is a base hint that I am indulging in too 
much wine. I honestly believe the slur was thrown 
out to prevent me from describing the awfully 
despondent mood he was in the last time I saw him. 
Then he told me that he was insane, that he 
proposed to immolate me upon the sacrificial 
altar of a phantom he was pursuing, and in the 
most tragic manner urged me to beware of him- 
self.” 

Dorison blushed and was disconcerted, but look- 
ing at Miss Eustace, his thoughts were diverted, 
for he perceived an expression of dislike and 


i68 


The man with a thumb 


annoyance flit across her face, and following her 
eyes, saw that Langdon had entered the room and 
was ostentatiously bowing to her. She did not re- 
spond except with a haughty and well-bred stare, 
though her brother made a gesture as if to rise from 
his chair. 

Dorison laid his hand upon his knee : 

“ Do nothing, Charley ; you cannot resent the 
affront without a scene, and the mere act of bow- 
ing is not sufficient.” 

“ You are right. What an insufferable bore it is 
that we should be haunted by this fellow.” 

Langdon was accompanied by a young man, and 
it was plain they were making the Eustace party 
the subject of their conversation. The incident, 
unimportant as it was, the meaning of which, how- 
ever, was known but to Miss Eustace, her brother, 
and Dorison, threw a damper upon the spirits of 
those who had been the gayest, and soon all rose 
from the table. As they crossed the room it was 
necessary to pass near the table at which Langdon 
was seated with his companion. 

Fearing that Langdon would attempt to secure 
recognition, Dorison maneuvered to get young 
Eustace in the lead of the party, intending to bring 
up the rear himself. His purpose was to prevent a 
scene if possible. 

As he anticipated, Langdon rose as Miss Eustace 
approached, with a smile, intended to be engaging, 
ready to extend his hand. Dorison quickly changed 
to the side of Miss Eustace other than that on 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA VS. 169 

which he was walking, thus bringing himself 
between her and Langdon. 

It was the work of a moment, and stopping, he 
said sternly and menacingly : 

“ It should be plain to you, sir, the lady does not 
desire to be recognized by you.” 

. A flush overspread Langdon’s face, and his eyes 
shot forth an angry glance as he said : 

“ My pretty fellow, you are making debts for me 
to pay. You will have to answer for this insult. 
Who made you the protector of the lady ? ” 

“Common decency, when a loafer insults her,” 
replied Dorison, moving on quietly, before Lang- 
don could say anything further. Miss Eustace, 
having penetrated his purpose, had walked on 
rapidly. 

“ Did that scoundrel attempt to speak to you, 
Evelyn,” Dorison heard young Eustace ask, as he 
joined the party in the vestibule. 

“Yes,” replied his sister, “but was prevented by 
Mr. Dudley.” 

“ You are putting my sister and our people in 
your debt rapidly, Dudley,” said Eustace warmly. 

“ That he is indeed,” echoed Evelyn, glancing 
gratefully at Dorison, in a manner which brought 
to his mind vividly the scene in the drug-store on 
the day he first met her. 

“ Strange,” he said lightly. “ But do you know 
that Langdon said something of the kind also.” 

Evelyn looked at him quickly in alarm, and 
exclaimed : 


17° the man with a thumb. 

“I hope you will get into no trouble by it.” 

‘‘No fear,” replied Dorison hastily. “I shall 
really be obliged to him, if he will be the cause of 
such interest in my well-being.” 

All this had passed rapidly as the carriages were 
being called, and in a moment more he was on his 
way with the young lady, endeavoring to make her 
forget the disagreeable contr'eternps by his gay 
talk. 

After leaving her at her house he went straightway 
to his own rooms, to dream of violet eyes and golden 
hair, no matter how unattainable they seemed to be 
to him. 

The following morning, on arising, he was handed 
a note, written hastily in pencil: 

‘ ‘Will Mr. Dudley meet the lady he saved from 
being arrested, this morning, at eleven, at the corner 
Lexington Avenue and 30th Street sharp. It’s for 
his good. 

‘‘Gratefully his friend, 

‘‘Bess.” 

Not a little astonished, and at first deeming it to 
be a foolish woman’s effort to draw him into an 
acquaintance, apd moreover disgusted with it, he 
determined to ignore it. But, on reflection, he 
thought there was something significant in the fact 
that she had learned his name, and he further 
remarked to himself, engaged as he was in such a 
search, he had no right to cast aside any incident, 
however slight or insignificant or improbable it 
might appear. 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 17 1 

Hence he determined to meet her as requested. 
As he had slept late, it was already near the hour, 
and so doffing his lounging jacket, he prepared for 
the street, and set out for the trysting place, as he 
laughingly termed it. 

The girl was already there, and approaching 
him, said: 

“Let us walk up Lexington Avenue. There is 
less chance of my being seen. I’m talcin’ chances 
doin’ this. You’ve crossed my man some way, an’ 
he’s down on you.’’ 

“Who is your man?’’ asked Dorison. 

“His name is Langdon.’’ 

“Oh!” said Dorison, surprised. “What is he to 
you?’’ 

“He’s my husband,’’ she said quickly. “Don’t 
you believe nothin’ else. The priest didn’t marry 
us, but we were married all the same, though he does 
try to act and say we weren’t. But we was all the 
same. ’ ’ 

“Well, what have I done, and if he is down on 
me, what can he do?’’ 

“I dunno what you’ve done to him. But he’s 
been grumblin’ for some time about a feller named 
Dudley, before I know’d it was you — the one what 
saved me from arrest. The other day he came 
home growlin’ about you interfering in his affairs, 
and last night when he came late, a fellow named 
Pittston was waiting for him ; and he took him off 
in another room to talk with him. Something you 
did to him last night made him very mad, an’ I 


172 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


heard him say he’d git you dosed for it before many 
hours.” 

Dorison laughed. 

“I don’t think there’s much to be afraid of.” 

“Yes, there is,” earnestly replied the girl. “If 
there wasn’t I wouldn’t be takin’ the chances I am. 
Now sir. I’m grateful to you for what ye did for me, 
and because after ye did it ye didn’t insult me, as 
most men do. So I said I’d give you a warnin’. 
He doesn’t treat me so well that I shouldn’t do it, 
any how. He’s a bad one when he’s roused, and 
that feller Pittston, who I hate, and him, has got 
some rough fellers that’ll do anything they tell them. 
You’ve got ’em both down on you. What they will 
do or can do I don’t knovy, but you want to look 
out and be careful. I don’t know just what they 
mean by dosin’ a man, but I do know that in 
Chicago they talked about dosin’ a man one night, 
and after that he was found on the street nearly 
dead.” 

“What does Langdon do for a living?” 

“He don’t do nothing. He’s got money of his 
own.” 

“Do you know that?” 

“I know he aint never done nothin’, aint never 
done no work, and yet he has all the money he 
wants. He don’t stint me.” 

“Where did you marry him?” 

“In Chicago. My folks were agin him. My 
father is a policeman there, and said he was nothin’ 
but a gambler. He wasn’t, though. I ran away 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 1 73 


with him, and father thought I wasn’t married to 
him first, but afterwards he knew better, although 
I came to know that his name wasn’t always Lang- 
don.” 

“What was it!’’ asked Dorison. 

“I never heard,’’ said the woman shortly. 

“Is he as flush of money as he always was!” 
asked Dorison. 

“I aint seen no difference,” replied the woman; 
“but don’t you think I’ve done enough when I 
warn you of danger, without askin’ me to give him 
away ? ’ ’ 

Dorison answered laughing: 

“Before I ask you to give him away I must know 
there is something to give away. However, I am 
much obliged for your kindness. I will be careful, 
though I don’t know what he can do. Do you 
know what I’ve done to him?” 

‘ ‘Only he says you are interfering in his affairs. I 
heard him say you followed Pittston into a restau- 
rant, and did it because a Chicago detective named 
Cathcart told you to. And he said that if you 
wasn't a swell in town he’d think you was a de- 
tective.” 

Dorison laughed at the idea, and further asked: 

“Do you know what I did to him last night that 
made him angry?” 

“No.” 

“I prevented him from speaking to a young lady 
who didn’t want to be noticed by him?” 

“I know — a Miss Eustace. I’ve heard him curse 


174 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


the family and say he knew a way to pull ’em down 
in time.” 

A malicious thought popped into Dorison’s head. 

“Do you know what he proposes to do?” 

“No.” 

“I do.” 

“What?” 

“I’m afraid you will get angry with me and make 
a row.” 

“No, I wont,” she said, with breathless interest. 

“He wants to marry the youngest Miss Eustace, 
and has tried to get her to run away with him.” 

Dorison was fairly frightened at the effect of his 
words. 

The black eyes of the woman flashed fire, and 
her strong, handsome face became hideously con- 
vulsed with an anger that seemed to be ungovern- 
able. 

“You are not lying to me,” she hissed. 

“Now becalm. You promised not to make a 
row. I shall not say another word until you are 
composed.” 

The girl made a desperate effort to regain con- 
trol of herself, and while she was doing so they 
walked some distance in silence. 

“Tell me all you know,” she said at length. “I 
will be quiet.” 

“Who is Dr. Fassett?” he asked. 

“He’s a doctor that used to come to see Harry 
every morning. I don’t know anything about him, 
except he used to have a close talk with him, but 


BREAD FOUND AFTER MANY DA YS. 175 

about what I don’t know. Harry’s got some hold 
on him. Why do you ask?” 

“He is the family physician of the Eustace peo- 
ple, and introduced Langdon there. He tried to 
make the younger daughter like Langdon, and 
arranged meetings alone with Langdon. The 
brother, young Eustace, told me of this, and that 
ever since they found it out they have kept so close 
a watch on the younger daughter that she can’t see 
him at all. But he is still hanging around.” 

The girl’s struggle with her passion was some- 
thing pathetic. 

“That’s what he’s tryin’ to make people believe 
I’m not his wife for, then,” she gasped. 

“Do you think so much of him?” he asked. 

“Does any wife want to see her husband run after 
another woman?” 

“I presume not, but he’ll never run away with 
her?” 

“No, he never will,” said the girl, with frightful 
emphasis. 

“Who is Pittston?” he asked. 

“I don’t know. He’s a feller of good family in 
Chicago. Harry knew him there. He’s crooked, 
I think. Hang it, sometimes I think Harry is, but 
I don’t know. They never tell me anything. Harry 

laughed one day and said I was too d d honest 

to tell anything to. They’ve got some ugly fellers 
about ’em, and you look out for ’em.” 

“I will look out. But what will you do? Tell 
Harry what I’ve told you?” 


176 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“I’ll tell him nothing. Don’t you fear. But he’ll 
never run away and marry anybody. I’ll see this 
girl and make her know I’m his wife. I must get 
back now, or I’ll be missed.’’ 

The woman slipped down the cross street, and 
Dorison retraced his steps through Lexington Ave- 
nue, deep in thought. After carefully reviewing 
his talk with the girl he said : 

“I presume the first thing to do is to see Cath- 
cart and inform him. The next thing, to see Eus- 
tace and tell him. It strikes me that there is a 
strong weapon in this to use with the young girl. 
It ought to rid her of any sneaking notion she may 
have for Langdon.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 

W HILE Dorison was having the conversation 
with the woman, as set forth in the previous 
chapter, Cathcart was laboring over a mass of notes 
in his own chamber in Bond Street. 

“The story is made,” he said, as he leaned back 
in his chair, his hands thrust in his vest-pockets. 
“Facts are connected by a little effort of the imagi- 
nation. A little work in confirming the imaginary 
parts, and if it does not go to pieces, that part of 
the affair is concluded. If it does, at all events 
there will be triumph enough in the other part to 
compensate for all the labor.” 

“Um,” he muttered, as he reached forward, 
taking up a memorandum. “The records show the 
house to have been transferred April 22, 1854, by 
Richard Basselin, for $11,500; a check is given to 
Richard Basselin, April 22, 1854, a certified check, 
and endorsed by Richard Basselin, is returned as a 
voucher. Thus a clear connection is unmistakably 
traced. Now to put that other conception of mine 
to the test, and if it should prove to be a correct 
one the road will be straight to the end.” 

He took up another pile of notes, and began the 
work of arranging in accordance with some plan he 
177 


178 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


carried in his head; finishing which he transferred 
the contents of each separate slip of paper to a 
sheet, commenting as he did so in brief sentences: 
“That fits like a glove.” “That is somewhat con- 
tradictory.” “There is a straight connection.” 
“A screw loose there,” and so on. 

He was thus engaged when Dorison entered. 

“Any new developments?” he asked curtly. 

“I have had a rather singular adventure this 
morning, which I have hastened to tell you.” 

The old man opened a newspaper lying beside 
him and spread it over the papers lying on his 
table. 

Having done this to his satisfaction he swung his 
chair around so that he faced Dorison, and said: 

“Tell it to me in detail.” 

To do this it was necessary to again go back to 
that evening when Dorison wandered to Twenty- 
ninth Street and Third Avenue — that evening so 
fruitful of results. Dorison consumed half an hour 
in the recital of his adventure, during which Cath- 
cart listened intently, interposing neither word, mo- 
tion, nor gesture, keeping his keen, bright eyes on 
Dorison’s face. 

“You have told it well and clearly,” he said as 
Dorison concluded. “No necessity of going over it 
again. What you tell is more important than you 
suppose, I imagine. One part confirms a theory I 
hardly dared to entertain. You must heed that 
warning of the woman.” 

Dorison laughed in derision. 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 179 

“I give it no importance,” he said; “I told it 
simply as showing why the woman wrote me.” 

‘‘But you must give it importance,” said Cath- 
cart earnestly. ‘‘Dosing is a Western term for 
sandbagging a man. It means something.” 

‘‘Threatened men live long,” laughed Dorison. 

The old detective glanced irritably at the young 
man, saying: 

‘‘You are self-sufficient at times, and when you 
are, you display your ignorance of the ways of the 
world.” 

He took up a book of telegraph blanks, and 
rapidly scribbled a telegram, handing it to Dorison. 

“Will you do me the favor of sending that when 
you leave here. You may read it.” 

Dorison did so with some interest. It was ad- 
dressed to a private detective in Chicago: 

‘‘Find as soon as possible whether Harry Lang- 
don was ever known by any other name.” 

Dorison inquired whether the person to whom 
the dispatch was addressed would know who was 
meant. 

‘‘Very well. I have had previous correspon- 
dence on the matter. The officer on Pittston,” he 
continued abruptly, “has been able to find out very 
little about him. So far as his life is concerned he 
seems to be engaged in no business. — idling his time 
innocently. It is explained, however .by the news 
you bring me that I was recognized by him. They 
have suspended whatever business they were up to, 
until they find out what I’m up to. They evidently 


180 THE man with a thumb. 

think I’m here on a visit only. One more question 
and then you must go. Have you seen the elder 
Eustace yet?” 

“No; I have tried to without success.” 

‘‘Don’t do it for several days. Indeed don’t 
meet him at all; avoid him until you see me 
again.” 

Wondering what was the reason of this sudden 
change of policy, porison promised. 

“I want you to be within call,” said the detective. 
‘‘My impression is that you would do better to keep 
to your rooms, so that if I want you I can find you 
without delay.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ Now get away. I’ve work to do.” 

As Dorison went out of the room, Cathcart called 
on some one in an adjoining room. The officer 
who had shadowed Langdon and Pittston appeared. 

“ Mr. Dudley is threatened with injury,” he said, 
“ by Langdon and Pittston. They won’t do it ; 
some one whom they employ will, if it is done at all. 
I want you to be on his track and see if he is fol- 
lowed. He obstinately refuses to believe in it. I 
think a disguise will be necessary.” 

“ I can follow him home to-day without one. 
After that I will ‘ fake ’ up something.” 

“ Very well.’’ 

So soon as the officer had hurried out after Dori- 
son, Cathcart gathered up his papers on the table 
and placed them in a wooden box on the floor, 
which he locked carefully. Donning his topcoat 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 181 

and taking his hat, he went out, walking to the 
Bowery. Here he sought a drug-store, and enter- 
ing, asked permission to look at the directory. 
Securing the address he desired, he took an 
upbound Fourth Avenue car. 

Arriving at the corner of Fifty-sixth Street he 
descended and walked in the direction of Fifth 
Avenue. Near that thoroughfare of fashion and 
wealth he stopped and ascended the steps of one of 
the handsomest dwellings of the block. 

It was the residence of Herbert Clavering 
Eustace. 

“This is my card,” he said to the servant. “ But 
it will convey nothing to Mr. Eustace. Please tell 
him my call is not a social one, but on business, 
important business.” 

He was called in.to a rear room which Mr. Eustace 
reserved as his study. 

“ I have brought you here because we would be 
free from interruption,” said Mr. Eustace. “ I am 
at your service, sir.” 

Cathcart bent his head a moment as if thinking 
how to begin his business. Mr. Eustace waited 
patiently and courteously. 

“ I am here,” said the old detective, “ in pursu- 
ance of an inquiry I am conducting, and recent 
developments have suggested to me that you may 
have much knowledge of the matter.” 

He lifted his head as he completed his sentence, 
and regarded Mr. Eustace fixedly. 

“ Unless I am further informed,” replied Mr. 


182 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


Eustace, smiling, “ I shall be unable to tell whether 
I have the information you desire or not.” 

“On the 14th day of July, 1871,” said Cathcart, 
ignoring the remark, and proceeding as in continu- 
ance of his beginning, “ Reuben Dorison died. 
When found, an unfinished letter was before him. 
He had been stricken with death in the very act of 
its composition. To whom it was intended to be 
addressed never was known, is i^ot known now, but 
it did a great wrong. It charged some one with 
the commission of many crimes, to cover which, 
and to pay the damages of which, had wasted his 
fortune. He was asking for assistance. By impli- 
cation, indeed one may say by inference alone, these 
crimes were charged against his only son, a young 
man upon whom he had lavished his affection and 
of whom he had apparently been very fond.” 

“Ah ! ” said Mr. Eustace, deeply interested, “ I 
can confirm that.” 

“ The executor and the immediate friends, how- 
ever, insisted that the letter condemned the son, 
and indeed employed the police to trace the crimes 
charged, and the friends of the young man cut him 
and snubbed him. He strove as' frantically 
to disprove the charges, as the police worked 
industriously to trace them. Both failed utterly, 
and the son, at last despairing and wholly miser- 
able, abandoned further effort, left the city and 
settled in the West. At this late day I am em- 
ployed in an endeavor to solve the riddle. I am a 
Western detective.” 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 183 

Mr. Eustace gave a great start, and a look of 
blank amazement spread over his face. It was as 
if he had said in words, “ You a detective ! I never 
would have believed it. You do not meet my pre- 
conception of a detective at all.” 

“ This movement instituted by the young man, 
after the lapse of eight years, has no other purpose 
than that of removing from his name the stigma 
placed upon it by that unfinished letter. He seeks 
no property, for his father’s executors discovered 
there was no property left.” 

“No property left?” exclaimed Mr. Eustace. 
“ Why, he had a splendid property.” 

“ Had, yes. But not when he died. Permit me 
to show you a copy of that unfortunate letter.” 

He handed Mr. Eustace a sheet of paper which 
he had taken from his pocket. After it was read 
Mr. Eustace returned it, saying : 

“ I w£s abroad at the time of Mr. Dorison’s 
death, had been for several years, and for two years 
after. At the exact time I was in the far East 
upon a special diplomatic mission, and therefore 
not until my return to Paris, many months after- 
wards, did I hear of its occurrence. I presume by 
that time interest in the events surrounding it had 
subsided, and upon my return to this city was 
almost all forgotten, and what was remembered 
was perverted. All that I heard was that the 
young man had behaved very badly, and had been 
discarded by his father previous to the father’s 
death ; that he had disappeared. I thought it 


184 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

strange, for the very last letter I had from Reu- 
ben Dorison, written some weeks before his death, 
but received by me many months after it, while 
speaking of troubles complicating his old age, 
referred in enthusiastic terms to the comfort and 
pride he had in his only son.” 

“You maintained a close intimacy with Mr. 
Dorison ? ” asked Cathcart. 

“ Yes ; it could not be closer,” replied Mr. Eus- 
tace warmly. “ At one period of our lives it was 
sacredly confidential — a confidence which doubt- 
less would have made me familiar with every event 
in his life, and him with that in mine, had not a 
long separation, by which we could not meet, 
except at the intervals of years, and then only 
briefly, occurred. Upon my side there was abso- 
lutely no reservation so long as it continued.” 

“ He did you essential service at one time ? ” 

“ He did indeed.” 

“ Saved you from ruin by taking charge of your 
estate, which you had endangered by extravagance 
and recklessness of life, lending the aid of his 
finances and credit ? ” 

The face of Mr. Eustace flushed deeply, and he 
looked with no little anger upon the calm and 
immobile face of the detective. 

“ It is true, sir,” he replied with his stateliest 
manner, “ but how you came to know it I cannot tell.” 

“ I have finally won Mr. Dodson’s executor to a 
belief in the innocence of the son. He has given 
me access to all of the papers of the estate.” 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 18.5 

“You are at no pains to make your words 
gentle,” said Mr. Eustace, with much dignity. 

“ I am a surgeon with a probe. I cannot expect 
to escape inflicting pain. Justice, delayed eight 
years, demands the truth at all cost. I have read 
you very inaccurately if I am mistaken in assuming 
you to be a man of strict honor, high regard for 
justice, and a deep sense of the obligation a man 
owes another in distress.” 

Mr. Eustace colored under the flattering estimate 
of his character. 

“ I asked the question from no idle curiosity, 
nor from a desire to inflict pain, but in order to 
confirm a theory I had formed as to the relations 
existing between you and Mr. Dorison. Such con- 
fidence and reliance as you gave him begets a 
return. It is knowledge of Mr. Dorison’s life I 
want, not of yours. Now, sir, up to this time you 
have accepted me on the strength of my own state- 
ment as to what I am. I am about to ask you 
questions which you should not answer a stranger 
or one having no reasonable right to ask them. 
Do me the favor to examine my credentials.” 

He handed Mr. Eustace a package of papers he 
drew from an inner pocket, and lay back in his 
chair patiently awaiting their examination. 

In time Mr. Eustace returned them. 

“ I am satisfied, sir ; some of them credit you 
with great eminence in your profession.” 

“ I have done some good work in my time,” 


1 86 THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 

replied Cathcart indifferently. “ If you are satis- 
fied as to my identity, we will proceed.” 

Mr. Eustace was evidently greatly impressed 
with his visitor, and yielded to him as most men did. 

“I apprehend,” said Cathcart, “that we will 
make greater progress if I submit my theory to you 
and try to see whether we can erect it into a cer- 
tainty. You will perceive in that unfinished letter 
a direct reference is made to a son. The writer 
seems to be borne down by the fact that all the 
evils he lias recited are to be attributed to an un- 
grateful son. Now, inasmuch as he had but one 
son, the superficial and perhaps natural supposition 
would be that that son was referred to. But we 
are immediately confronted with the fact that 
nothing in the life of the young man can be found 
to justify the charges. Upon the contrary, we find 
abundant evidence that that son was treated with 
confidence, pride, affection, and generosity, which 
the son repaid with an affection and attention quite 
as strong. This certainly is contradictory. But if 
further evidence is wanted it is to be found in the 
almost frantic endeavors of the young man himself 
to disprove the charges — endeavors ill-directed and 
ill-advised, as might be expected in a boy only 
twenty-three — throwing himself open to the most 
rigid examination, and, further, that after having 
brooded on these troubles for eight years, he has 
set the inquiry on foot again. Those who are 
inclined to look leniently on the young man, say that 
the elder Dorison must have been stricken with an 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 187 

insanity which was a precursor of his death, or, 
that if he had been permitted to finish the letter it 
would have been found that he would have quali- 
fied the charges. Others, and by far the majority, 
including the long and clear-headed men of the 
police, insist that the charges are direct and une- 
quivocal. I disagree with all.” 

Mr. Eustace, who had been sitting in his easy- 
chair, with his elbow resting upon the arm, sup- 
porting his chin, straightened up and looked with 
rising color upon the old detective. 

“ You will notice,” continued Cathcart, taking 
out the copy of the unfinished letter, “that in the 
reference to this son he uses the term, ‘an ungrate- 
ful son,’ not my ungrateful son, nor the ungrateful 
son of my heart, or life, or old age, as men often 
speak. He uses the indefinite article, ’an, — ” 

“ And you reason there was another son,” inter- 
rupted Mr. Eustace, excitedly. 

“ I do,” replied Cathcart firmly, — “ an illegitimate 
son. Therefore, believing that to be so, and know- 
ing the relations existing between you and Mr. 
Dorison, I am come to know whether you have any- 
thing in your possession — any knowledge — which 
justifies such a theory ? ” 

Mr. Eustace rose from his chair impulsively, and 
rapidly walked up and down the apartment with 
long strides, evidently much agitated. 

“You are touching upon sacred confidences,” 
said Mr. Eustace finally, “I do not know — ” 

“ One moment,” interrupted the old detective 


1 88 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

hastily; “ I am not without knowledge that the elder 
Dorison had some relation with a woman, — just 
what it was I do not know, but his portrait, his seal 
ring, and parts of letters written by him were found 
in her apartments. But stronger than all is this : 
For a number of years, that is to say for twenty-five 
years, this woman occupied a house down town, the 
title to which was vested in her name. This property 
was transferred to her April 22, 1854, by Richard 
Basselin, the consideration being $11,500. I find 
among the papers of the Dorison estate a voucher, 
a check drawn on the Chemical Bank for $11,500, 
in favor of Richard Basselin, dated April 22, 1854, 
signed by Reuben Dorison, certified by the cashier 
on that day, and endorsed by Richard Basselin. 
Subsequently Richard Basselin removed to Buffalo, 
where he died a little more than a year ago. You 
perceive that a connection is established. The 
nature of that connection is what I now desire to 
ascertain.” 

Mr. Eustace had stopped in front of Cathcart as 
the latter talked. He asked suddenly : 

“ The name of that woman ? ” 

“ I prefer to follow my own plan of inquiry and 
endeavor to elicit information before disclosing it. 
I have no objection to giving it and will do so before 
I leave. The important thing is not to satisfy your 
curiosity but to justify my theory.” 

Mr. Eustace turned an irritable glance upon the 
old man, sitting so calm and imperturbable at his 
fireside. He resumed his walk. 


PIECING OUT A STORY. I&9 

“ I have some information, no doubt, that will 
assist you. What you are telling me is wholly new. 
The question in my mind is whether I should tell 
that which was given me under the solemn seal of 
secrecy.” 

“Have you the right to obstruct the search of a 
young man leading to the restoration of his good 
name? I appeal to you as a man of justice. I 
appeal also to your recollection of Reuben Dorison, 
and ask if it were possible for him to appear here 
for one moment, whether he would refuse you per- 
mission to unlock your lips, when the doing of it 
would tend to remove the disgrace from a son he 
thought so much of, as you have yourself testified. 
Finally, I say to you, not in the way of a threat, 
but as a simple statement of fact, that there is 
another phase of this case, that sooner or later the 
officers of the law must take hold of, where you will 
be summoned to tell all you know, unless you evade 
it by telling me now.” 

All of this increased the agitation of Mr. Eustace, 
and he said : 

“The strongest appeal is the one to my memory 
of Reuben Dorison. I think you are right there.” 

He sat himself down in his easy-chair, and looked 
into the fire burning brightly in the grate a long 
time. 

Cathcart sat silently by, but presenting a firm atti- 
tude of irresistible pertinacity in his determination 
to get the story. 

“I have a strang tale to tell,” finally began Mr. 


i9° THE AfAN WITH A THUMB. 

Eustace, “and yet only the outlines of it. When 
Reuben Dorison was a young man, subsequent to 
his father’s death, perhaps then twenty-two or three 
years old, before he was married to Mary Claver- 
ing, a distant relative of mine, he met and fell in 
love with a beautiful young girl, in a rank of life 
much lower than his own. Where he met her or 
how, I never learned, but her father was a cos- 
tumer to one of the theaters of that day, and had a 
shop in Chatham Street. She returned that love 
and they desired to marry. Her father, however, 
for reasons he would not give, refused his consent, 
grew violent when it was talked of, and finally put 
her away so effectually that Dorison could learn 
nothing of her. When next he heard of her, she 
was married, and to a man at the command of her 
father. This story I had from his lips. I cannot 
recollect that I ever heard her last name, or that of 
the man she married. In speaking to her he called 
her Emma. Dorison’s mother was bent on his 
marrying Mary Clavering, and in time brought 
about the match. Dorison must have become rec- 
onciled to it,’’ continued Mr. Eustace, musingly, 
more to himself than to Cathcart, “for in those days 
he seemed very happy, and his home in Bleecker 
Street was as pleasant and gay as any in the city. 
He was exceedingly prosperous in business, and 
the only cloud I could see dimming his happiness 
was the death of four children, leaving him only 
one, the youngest, a boy. In 1851, Dorison moved 
from Bleecker Street to Twenty-third Street, and a 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 191 

year later his wife died, the boy then being four or 
five years old.” 

Mr. Eustace got up and going to his desk took 
from a pigeon-hole a little book. Turning over its 
leaves he examined a page of it attentively, and re- 
turned. 

“I am correct in my recollection. One after- 
noon, three years after the death of his wife, he 
came to me in deep distress, saying he must relieve 
his feelings by talking with some one he could trust. 
He said that two years previously he had met his 
early love, and discovered that she was a widow — 
that her husband had treated her ill all his life, and 
had several years previously gone to another part 
of the country, contributing sufficiently to her sup- 
port to escape charges of abandonment ; that she 
had had advices of his death, by letter, from one of 
his companions who had sent her his private papers; 
and that she was childless ; that he found his love 
for her returned, and in haste and without consider- 
ing consequences had married her. For reasons 
which he did not give me, he said he determined he 
would not make the marriage known until he could 
carry out successfully his retirement from business, 
and permanently invest his property. So he had 
rented a house and was providing for her as a hus- 
band should, but still keeping the fact of the mar- 
riage secret. He had retired and was about ready 
to announce his second marriage, two children hav- 
ing been born to them in the meantime, when the 
first husband presented himself alive and in person. 


192 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


Though Dorison had been compelled to pay heavily 
to prevent the husband from making a scandal, from 
prosecuting his wife for bigamy and to go his way 
and leave her in peace, the fact remained that she 
was not his wife, and could not be recognized as 
such. Though he was the father of her children, 
he said the woman insisted on an absolute severance 
of their relations. She said they had sinned, but 
sinned innocently, and that they could repair their 
wrong only by separation. He had tried to combat 
her resolution, but she was immovable, and he was 
almost heartbroken, saying his love for her was 
never so great as when she had shown such nobility 
of soul; that she should be surrounded by every 
comfort, and that her protection should be his care. 
Again he refrained from the mention of names, and 
handing me securities to the amount of fifty thous- 
and dollars, asked me to hypothecate them on a 
long term.” 

“My theory is confirmed,” said Cathcart. “Did 
he ever refer to it again?” 

“No,” replied Eustace, “except once in answer 
to a question, when he said that affairs had settled 
into a sad and quiet rut and he avoided thought of 
it as much as possible. Not long after this affair 
occurred my own financial troubles, and after they 
had been straightened out, upon which he labored 
much, I went abroad in the diplomatic -service. 
While our warm friendship was never broken, 
our confidences, by the fact of separation only, 
ceased,” 


PIECING OUT A STORY. 193 

“Urn," said the detective, “Is that all you have 
to say?” 

“No. One more point. In 1869 I returned 
from the continent on a short visit, leaving my 
family behind me. The night before I was to re- 
turn, Dorison came to me, begging to be excused 
for troubling me at such an hour and time on such 
a matter. He said he was in great trouble, the 
causes of which were too many and involved too 
long a story in explanation to give them. He had 
with him a small tin case in which were contained 
one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of govern- 
ment securities, which he said he desired me to 
retain, subject to his order, the reason for which he 
would give me some time. He had a receipt pre- 
pared simply reading: ‘Received from Reuben 
Dorison government securities to the amount of one 
hundred and fifty thousand dollars,’ which he asked 
me to sign, and I did. ‘I am preparing,’ he said, 
‘for a storm. You know the unfortunate affair I 
became involved in. This is intended to be some 
reparation to the children whose paternity I am 
compelled to deny — one child perhaps it were bet- 
ter to say. In view of the fact that Emma’s first 
husband is yet alive and makes demands on her, I 
don’t think it wise to hand them to her yet. In 
view of certain demands on me, of matters occur- 
ring and likely to occur in the future, they were 
better out of my hands. I can think of no better 
place than to put them in the hands of a friend I 
trust as I do you. A demand will be made upon 


194 THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 

you, sometime. When it is, yield them up only on 
the presentation of this paper.’ He showed me a 
paper written in red ink, the edges of which were 
notched. ‘Here,’ he continued, ‘is another piece 
of paper, blank, which fits into these notches.’ I 
fitted them and saw they compared. He went 
away. I never saw him after, and I yet have the 
piece of blank notched paper in my safe. The 
bonds are in my possession, swollen by interest and 
compound interest to nearly a quarter of a million 
of dollars, and no demand has yet been made for 
them.” 

“And never will be,” said Cathcart positively. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE STORY PIECED OUT. 

M R. EUSTACE was evidently much astonished 
and impressed by the positive tone of the 
old detective. 

“Why? What do you know?” 

The old man ignored the question, but asked 
another: 

“Did you never hear anything more on the 
subject?” 

“Yes. A year later, in a letter to me at Paris, 
Dorison said that he did not know but events were 
shaping themselves so that he himself would be 
compelled to demand a return of these securities, 
but I never heard more from him on the subject.” 

“I am inclined to believe,” said Cathcart, after 
some moments of thought, “that that unfinished 
letter was intended to be addressed to you?” 

“To me? Can you mean it?” 

“Yes, I do, and the more I think of it the more 
confirmed I am. See! He gave those, bonds in 
trust for a person whom he protected by not hand- 
ing them to her, but to you. The necessity for her 
possession of them did not arise during his life. If 
he were to approach death, then he meant to give the 
order to her, but he was carried off without a 
19s 


196 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

moment’s warning. But that is not my direction. 
He knew they were in your hands, recoverable by 
him at any time. He intimated in one letter to you 
that he might be compelled to demand possession 
of them himself. What is that letter you have read 
but an explanation of the reasons why he wanted 
them? Had he been permitted to finish that letter, 
he would have wound up with a demand for their 
return, and for further assistance from you.” 

“And he should have had it,” said Mr. Eustace 
fervently. ‘‘I owe everything to him.” 

“I see it clearly now. He had hypothecated all 
of his securties. They were in danger of lapsing. 
He wanted the proceeds of these bonds and your 
assistance to redeem them. His real estate was 
mortgaged to its full value; his other means were 
exhausted, and so, without the aid of those bonds and 
your assistance, he could not redeem the pledged 
securities. By his sudden death they did lapse into 
the hands of those who had advanced him money.” 

“But what did he do with all the money he 
raised?” asked Mr. Eustace, bewildered and 
astonished. 

“He tells you in that unfinished letter. You ask 
me how I know no demand will ever be made upon 
you. I will tell you, and in doing so will piece out 
the tale you told me. First, there is no one to 
make the demand. They are de-ad. The woman 
Mr. Dorison married only to find she could not be 
his wife, was Mrs. Emma Farish, living at No. — 
East Sixteenth Street; the two children of which 


THE STORY PIECED OUT. 


197 


Mr. Dorison was the father were a boy and a girl. 
The girl’s name was Anne ; the boy’s name I believe 
to have been Harold, — of that I am not quite 
certain.” 

“How long have you known this?” asked Mr. 
Eustace, in open astonishment. 

“Since you told me your tale.” 

“I cannot comprehend.” 

“Possibly not. I have been studying, searching, 
delving, dreaming and working on this case for two 
months, and I have only just comprehended it.” 

“Then these bonds which Dorison intended for 
this woman, should, if her identity be established, 
go to her?” 

“That is impossible.” 

“Why, indeed?” 

“She is dead; so is her daughter.” 

“Oh.” 

“Have you forgotten the Farish murder?” 

“Great heavens! Are those the people — were 
they the victims of that horrible butchery?” 

“The same. Now see how marvelously the 
affairs of this life are adjusted. I am employed by 
the younger Dorison to endeavor to explain the 
riddle of that letter, which has covered him with 
disgrace. These murders are committed, and I am 
solicited by the police authorities to hunt the 
murderer or murderers down. I have two cases 
on my hands as widely separated, you would say, as 
they well could be. I take my first step. In the 
room where the daughter is killed a portrait of Mr. 


I9 8 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

Dorison and his seal ring are found, and in one of 
the hands of the murdered girl a scrap of paper torn 
from a letter; another on the floor. They are 
both in the handwriting of the elder Dorison. My 
first determination is what? Why, I have not two 
cases on hand but one — to reveal the mystery of one 
is to reveal the mystery of the other. How shall you 
account for these things? A man in a Western 
city sets me at work in New York in a case concern- 
ing him alone, and coming here with some reputa- 
tion, the police employ me on the murder, and lo ! 
they are in effect the same case.” 

“The ways of Providence are past finding out,” 
said Mr. Eustace solemnly, aghast at the informa- 
tion forced upon him. “But where is the son?” 
he asked, suddenly and eagerly. 

“I don’t know,” replied Cathcart. “He disap- 
peared from his home when about eighteen, and, I 
should say, mysteriously.” 

“Oh!” said Mr. Eustace, cast into profound 
thought by the answer. 

“I am quite certain,” said Cathcart, “that those 

murders had their origin in an endeavor 

Phew — ” 

The old man leaped to his feet with a long, low 
whistle, and thrusting his hands into his vest-pockets, 
began treading the floor rapidly, saying to himself, 
“Let me think! Let me think! Ho, ho! let me 
think! Ho, ho! let me think!” 

Mr. Eustace, startled by the abruptness of 
Cathcart, began to ask him questions, but the old 


THE STORY PIECED OUT. 


199 


detective waved him to silence with an imperious 
gesture. Thus he continued to tramp for fully ten 
minutes. Then he resumed his seat. 

“Now listen,” he said, bending forward earnestly. 
“Inquiry has determined that the murders were not 
committed for the sake of robbery, that is, for the 
sake of obtaining jewels and money, but in order 
to obtain possession of certain documents. It is 
clear, apparently, that among those desired docu- 
ments were letters from Dorison, since we have 
fragments torn from them in a struggle which pre- 
ceded the murder of the daughter. But this mur- 
der of the daughter, from whom those letters were 
wrested, did not yield what was wanted, and so the 
mother was killed and something torn from her 
breast, where she had concealed it. What was 
desired? The order for the bonds of one hundred 
and fifty thousand dollars in your hands, the exist- 
ence of which the murderer had knowledge of, and 
of the way to obtain them? And as Dorison talks 
of defalcations and forgeries committed by a son, 
were evidences of those forgeries, existence of which 
were a menace to the wrong-doer, in possession of 
the woman? Were these the things wanted?” 

“ And was the son who so mysteriously disap- 
peared, and who was charged with these crimes, 
the murderer ? ” shouted Mr. Eustace, excited and 
losing his habitual control. 

“ Eh, eh, eh, eh ! ” cried Cathcart with eager 
exclamations, as if he were urging on the chase 
after an idea. 


266 THE Man WITH A THUMS. 

“ It must be so ! ” cried Mr. Eustace. “ It must 
be so ! ” 

“ Softly, softly ! ” said the old detective, putting 
a curb upon himself. “ There are other things. 
There was a glove — By Heaven ! ” he almost 
shouted, as he again leaped to his feet with his 
hands in his vest-pockets, repeating his tramping 
up and down. “ Oh, my heavens ! this will never do. 
Could he have known of these bonds and wanted to 
get the people out of the way so he could seize 
them — ” 

He turned short upon Mr. Eustace, who was 
staring at him, unable to follow his words under- 
standing^. 

“ Have you ever told any one you had these 
bonds ? ” 

“ Never a soul.” 

“ Are you certain ? This question means a great 
deal.” 

“ No one knows that I hold the bonds given me 
by Reuben Dorison, except you.” 

“ You have never written about them or made a 
memorandum likely to come to the eyes of another 
person ? ” 

“ No. I wrote a statement of how they came 
into my hands, with instructions that they must be 
held by my executors subject to the order spoken 
of by Dorison, but that statement was by me placed 
with my will as soon as completed and under seal 
immediately. The seal has never been broken.” 

“ I hope not. I hope not,” said Cathcart. 


THE STORY PIECED OUT. 


261 


“ What is this that exqites you now ? ” 

“ Nothing that I can tell you until I know more. 
If I were to speak now I might heedlessly do a 
great wrong. Good-afternoon. You will hear 
from me again.” 

“ Stop one moment, Mr. Cathcart,” cried Mr. 
Eustace. “ There is a point I have been trying to 
speak of for some time.” 

“Ah! What is that?” said Cathcart, coming 
back to the fireplace. 

“ Some time ago my daughter was nearly run over 
on Broadway and was saved by a young gentleman, 
who acted exceedingly well in the matter. I called 
upon him to make my acknowledgments of his ser- 
vice, and was startled by his extraordinary resem- 
blance to Dorison when he was of the age the 
young man is now.” 

“Ah ! ” said Cathcart aloud, but to himself he 
added, “ our young friend enters.” 

“ He denied relationship to Dorison when I spoke 
of it. I have met him several times since, and 
indeed have entertained him at dinner, for he and 
my son have become quite intimate. At this dinner 
I referred to this resemblance again, and I saw that 
he was making efforts to evade the conversation, in 
fact, everything leading to a discussion of his ante- 
cedents. Suddenly the idea occurred to me that 
this young man might be one of Dorison ’s illegiti- 
mate children. He gives his name as Dudley.” 

“Ah!” said Cathcart gravely. “I will look 
into this.” 


202 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ You will have no difficulty in finding him. He 
moves about a good deal. His apartments are in 
Twenty-ninth Street.” 

“What number!” asked Cathcart, with an in- 
terested expression in his face. 

“I have forgotten, but will send it you, after 
obtaining it from my son.” 

“That is unnecessary. What streets is it be- 
tween?” 

“Broadway and Fifth Avenue.” 

“That is all that is necessary.” 

“So satisfied was I that this young man was play- 
ing a part, that I strenuously objected to his being 
received here as a friend of the house longer, and 
tried to prevent his acting as an escort to one of my 
daughters to a theater party my son gave. But as 
that would have necessitated the withdrawal of 
invitations, I yielded in this instance, upon the 
understanding that he was not to be encouraged 
further.” 

“That was proper — very proper. Did you give 
your reasons?” 

“No; I could not, without telling more than I 
would.” 

“I see. You have had trouble with a man Lang- 
don, have you not?” 

“Well, we have been annoyed by a man of that 
name.” 

“Very true! Seriously annoyed. Annoyed by 
his forced attentions to one of your daughters.” 

“Upon my word, Mr. Cathcart, I hardly know 


THE STORY PIECED OUT: 203 

which to admire most — the directness of your 
speech or the scope of your information.” 

“Don’t be annoyed, sir. I mean only to do you 
a service. The fellow is a scamp. He is married. 
He has a wife. Any time you want me to convince 
your daughter of that I will do it, so there will be 
no question concerning it.” 

Leaving Mr. Eustace dumfounded by his knowl- 
edge of what was supposed to be a family secret, 
and yet appreciative of the value of the service 
proffered, Cathcart caught his hat and . moved 
quickly to the door. 

He was back again in a moment. 

“I take it, Mr. Eustace, you see the necessity of 
keeping these developments of to-day strictly a 
secret, not to be talked about. Devotion to the 
memory of your dead friend would demand this, even 
if justice did not.” 

“I think I understand my position,” said Mr. 
Eustace, loftily. 

This time the old detective slipped out of the 
door and was gone, leaving Mr. Eustace agitated 
and excited, feeling very much as if he had been 
caught up in a whirlwind, and after many confus- 
ing gyrations, set down where he had been taken up. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 

L EAVING the Eustace mansion, the old detec- 
tive walked hastily to Broadway, where he hailed 
a cab and ordered that he be driven rapidly to 
Twenty-ninth Street, to Dorison’s apartments. 
Here he handed a note to the janitor, requesting 
that it be delivered at once to Mr. Dudley. 

From tlience he was driven to his own apartments 
in Bond Street, where he dismissed the cab. . 

A moment later a man with a black beard and 
bushy black hair left the house. Had he been fol- 
lowed, it would have been found that he made his 
way straight to Police Headquarters and into the 
office of Captain Lawton. 

Ten minutes after the officer, who was now con- 
stantly in attendance upon Cathcart, left the house 
and hurried to Broadway. 

In the meam time Dudley had received Cathcart’s 
note and read it. It ran : 

“It is as plain as a pikestaff. There was another 
son. I have it all in my hands. Come and see me 
this evening.” 

“Is the old man drunk or has he gone crazy?” 
exclaimed Dorison, bewildered, as he read the 


204 


EUSTACE IX THE TOILS. 


205 


words: “What is as plain as a pikestaff? If there 
was another son who was his father? What is the 
old imbecile talking about?” 

After a vain endeavor to arrive at a meaning of 
the strange epistle, and gathering as the only intel- 
ligence that the old detective desired to see him in 
the evening, he resumed his reading the delivery of 
the note had interrupted. 

From this occupation, three hours later, he was 
aroused by the entrance of young Eustace, who, 
throwing his hat lightly upon a table and drawing 
off his gloves, walked up to where Dorison was 
seated. 

“Look at me,” he said. “Gaze upon me with 
thine eagle eye.” 

Dorison perceived that Eustace was not a little 
excited and irritated. He looked at him inquiringly 
without rising. 

“Please get up,” continued Eustace, “and 
examine my bump of combativeness and destruc- 
tiveness and see whether they are abnormally 
developed. Look at the top of my head and see 
whether there is a general depression where the 
moral faculties should lift it dome like. Peer into 
my eyes and observe whether they emit baleful 
gleams. Consider my jaw and determine whether 
it is square, angular, and cruel. Are my lips thin ? 
Do I smile a spasmodic smile, mirthless and mechan- 
ical? And when I do smile does my mustache go 
up and my nose come down? Answer me, most 
potent and grave, would you from an hundred 


20 6 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


men, good and true, pick me out for a butcherous 
murderer?” 

Dorison’s heart gave a great leap into his throat, 
and falling back pounded at his ribs. It was only 
by a supreme effort he could control himself and 
reply as he desired. 

‘‘What do you mean by such rodomontade?” 
he asked, assuming a vexed pleasantry. 

‘‘Mean?” replied Eustace severely. ‘‘I mean 
the distinguished honor has been done your friend, 
by the intelligent police of our city, of entertaining 
the idea of the possibility of his having committed 
the Farish murders.” 

“For Heaven’s sake!” cried Dorison, seriously 
alarmed and much agitated. ‘ ‘What can you 
mean? Tell me.” 

‘‘I hardly know whether to be mad as blazes or 
to laugh consumedly,” replied Eustace, drawing a 
chair in front of Dorison and seating himself. 
‘‘Here is the woful tale. This afternoon about 
three o’clock I was sailing down Fifth Avenue, in 
all the pride of my pomp and power, felicitating 
myself upon the havoc I was making in all the 
female hearts I met, when a man, with a high, 
long thin nose, between two ferret-like eyes, stepped 
up to me, with smooth, catlike movements, and 
said : 

“ ‘Mr. Charles Eustace, I believe.’ 

‘‘Assuring him, with that distinguished grace 
which is so peculiarly my own, that the expression 
of his belief did not do injustice to the fact, with 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 


207 


less elegance than precision of speech, he informed 
me ‘I was wanted.’ ” 

“Not at that time having had the inestimable 
privilege of association with those gentlemen who, 
for a yearly consideration, undertake to guard our 
persons and possessions and to protect our morals I 
enjoyed later, I was unacquainted with the peculiar 
meaning they attach to simple words of our language, 
and so I said, ‘What?’ my tone being a happy blend- 
ing of surprise and perplexity.’’ 

“ ‘You’re wanted,’ he repeated. 

“ ‘My friend,’ I remarked sweetly, ‘there is a 
charming insufficiency in your information. By 
whom am I wanted and what for?’ 

“‘They want you at Police Headquarters,’ 
replied the mysterious one. 

“ ‘Who wants me at Police Headquarters,” 
asked I. 

“ ‘Captain Lawton, the head detective,’ he replied 
with a grin. 

“ ‘For Heaven’s sake,’ I cried, as light broke 
upon me, ‘ what have I been doing ? ’ 

“ ‘Blest if I know, if you don’t,’ replied he of 
the grin. ‘ They want you at once. They sent 
me to take you.’ 

“ ‘I’m taken then, am I ? ’ I asked. 

“ ‘You be,’ he replied briefly, but positively and 
ungramatically. 

‘“Are you bound to carry me?’ I inquired 
innocently. 


268 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“ ‘ Not if you will ride in the street-car,’ replied 
he of the grin. 

“ ‘ Then lead on, I’ll follow.’ ” 

“For heaven’s sake! ” broke in Dorison, “Get 
on to something important. You torture me.” 

“Do not interfere with my recital,” replied Eus- 
tace. “ I am giving this wondrous tale in my best 
realistic vein. Well, to pursue. We entered the 
street-car, and as we were borne rapidly over the 
bounding pavement — note the neatness of that — I 
devoted myself to a review of the evil deeds of my 
life. It is astonishing how pure and harmless that 
life appeared when put to the test of a calm review 
in a street-car on the way to Police Headquarters. 
I pledge you my word the only crime I could hon- 
estly charge up against myself, was the surrepti- 
tious and felonious purloining of a vagrant peanut 
from the stall of a child of sunny Italy, who took 
his pay in hurling maledictions after me in choice 
Tuscan.” 

“ Oh, do not delay so ! ” cried Dorison, burning 
with impatience and most eager for the outcome. 

“ Well, then, if you are not satisfied to listen to 
a minute analysis of my emotions, I will say that 
in due course of time we arrived at the Palace of 
Public Protection in Mulberry Street, where, with 
great eclat and pomp, I was ushered into a luxuri- 
ously-furnished apartment by my taking guide, who 
immediately disappeared. In a moment I found I 
was in the presence of two persons. One— a rather 
fine-looking man, who sat in a chair at a desk, 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 


209 


regarding me austerely ; the other — a middle-aged, 
stout gentleman of medium height, with black 
beard and bushy black hair, whom I recollect to 
have seen dining in the Hoffman House cafe the 
night I had the honor of first making your acquain- 
tance.” 

“ Cathcart in disguise,” muttered Dorison, under 
his breath. 

“ On that night he attracted my attention by 
reason of his keeping his black, beady eyes upon 
me during the whole dinner, the reason whereof 
was made plain to me in the subsequent proceed- 
ings. 

“ ‘ Good afternoon, Mr. Eustace,’ said the gen- 
tleman at the desk. 

“ ‘ Good afternoon,’ I returned courteously, 
adding, ‘ I am here because of a pressing invita- 
tion to call on Captain Lawton — I presume you are 
Captain Lawton. I am at loss for its reason, for I 
can confess to but one crime, after a careful review 
of my life, and that is the felonious theft of a pea- 
nut yesterday morning. I would make restitution, 
but the sad fact is, and I freely confess it, I have 
eaten it.’ 

“ The Captain, with just the soup$on of a merry 
twinkle in his eye, replied : 

“ ‘ Perhaps when the business upon which you are 
brought here is made known, you will not show 
such levity.’ 

“ Receiving this rebuke as best I could, I pulled 
myself into a corresponding serious expression and 


210 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


calmly awaited developments, taking a chair unin- 
vited in the mean time, and assuming one of my 
favorite poses of grace and elegance. 

“ Reaching forward over his desk, the Captain 
removed a newspaper and took in his hand a plate 
with glass over it. Under the' glass seemed to be a 
cheap fan, and on the fan something I could not in 
the light then make out. He handed it to me, 
saying : 

“ * Do you recognize that ? ’ 

“ Imagine my surprise when I found carefully 
preserved under that glass one of my own gloves. 
I was so astonished I could not reply for a moment, 
and the while as I looked at it, both these kindly 
gentlemen bored holes into my face with their 
sharp eyes. 

“ ‘ That, I take/ said I, when I could recover 
from my astonishment, ‘ to be one of my own gloves. 
I am aware that it is not a common glove — that 
there is a peculiar elegance about it, rarely achieved 
— but why the eminent Captain Lawton should pre- 
serve it so carefully under a glass, and a bell glass 
at that, I am at a loss to determine.’ 

“ ‘ You are very frank,’ sternly said the Captain. 
‘ Do you know where that was found ? ’ 

“ ‘ I do not,’ I replied as calmly as I could, but in 
reality trembling in the most minute fiber of my 
body, while visions of wrathful and murderously- 
inclined husbands and lovers swarmed upon me, 
and the suspicion that Mr. Blackbeard was one of 
them, presented horrible consequences. 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS . 


2 1 1 


“ ‘ Near to,’ said the Captain impressively, ‘ and 
under the murdered body of Mrs. Farish.’ 

“ 1 Oh dear,’ I ejaculated weakly, for I was unable 
to recall the lady. ‘ How did you get it there ? 
Who did you say ? ’ 

“ ‘ Mrs. Farish.’ 

“ ‘ Madame Delamour,’ grunted Mr. Blackbeard. 

“ ‘ Oh, the costumer,’ I cried, my wits in opera- 
tion under the suggestion. 

“ ‘ Ah, you do know her then,’ said the Captain. 
1 Now, how did that happen to be there ? ’ 

“ * Upon my word, I don’t know,’ I replied, inno- 
cently but truthfully, ‘ unless I dropped it on the 
floor the night I called upon her.’ 

“ 1 You did call upon her, did you ? ’ said the 
Captain eagerly. ‘ Now, be very careful in what 
you say.’ 

“ A little astonished, I said in return : 

“ ‘ Perhaps you will kindly tell me what you two 
amiable gentlemen are driving at ? ’ 

“ ‘ Mrs. Farish was murdered,’ answered the 
Captain, with owlish solemnity. ‘ Her body was 
found ten or twelve hours after the deed was done. 
Upon the floor near the body was found this glove. 
Since inquiry has determined that Mrs. Farish 
received only one male visitor, it became necessary 
to find out to whom this glove belonged. It was 
found to be yours. With this explanation, perhaps 
you can see that it became necessary for us to send 
for you, to explain its presence at that place at 
that time ? ’ 


212 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


“ To say I was taken aback is perhaps unneces- 
sary. For a moment I was stunned. I failed 
utterly to perceive the humor of the situation. 

“ ‘ And you suppose I committed that murder/ I 
blurted out. 

“ ‘ We charge nothing. We give you an oppor- 
tunity to explain the presence of that glove at that 
place at that particular time.’ 

“ The wild absurdity of the idea finally broke 
upon me, and I ‘ larfed a larf ’ of blended mirth, 
contempt, and annoyance. 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’ I said, ‘ you will be compelled to 
call in your dogs and send them on another scent. 
Tell me, when did this murder occur ?’ 

“ ‘ On the fifth day of last October,’ replied the 
Captain. 

“ I took from my pocket my memorandum-book, 
and turning to the page of that date I said : 

“ ‘ Yes, I called upon Mrs. Farish at No. 

East Sixteenth Street on the night of that day. 
However, she was alive and well when I went there, 
and she was alive and well when I left her.’ 

“ The two gentlemen exchanged looks after this 
crushing blow, and appeared to be somewhat mixed, 
so to speak. I politely and magnanimously waited 
for them to recover from the effects of the 
blow. 

“‘What was your business there?’ asked Mr. 
Blackbeard. 

“ ‘ Charity,’ I promptly replied — ‘ charity on both 
ends. I went to see her about costumes.’ 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 213 

“ ‘ But that was not her place of business,’ per- 
sisted Mr. Blackbeard. 

“ ‘ True,’ I replied, ‘ but if you will bear with me 
I will tell in detail how I came to go there. Last 
October Mrs. Bushnell, a lady of charitable incli- 
nations, was interested in an uptown hospital, for the 
aid of which an entertainment, of which tableaux 
were to be a feature, was proposed. As I had had 
some experience in those things, I was asked to 
take charge. In the management of this affair I 
called upon Mr. Newton, a real estate broker, to 
ask that his daughter might participate. During 
our conversation he asked if I had engaged cos- 
tumes, and learning I had not, said he was greatly 
interested in a person who had just rented apart- 
ments in a house in Bleecker Street, of which he 
had charge, in which to conduct a costumer’% busi- 
ness. He imagined, he said, she was in want of 
assistance in starting. And, if I could do as well 
with her, he would like me to see her and give her 
the business. But, he added, that he did not 
believe she was fairly open for business yet, and 
that, though Madame Delamour was her business 

name, I could find her as Mrs. Farish at No. 

East Sixteenth Street. Willing to oblige him, I 
went that evening to see her. I did not do any 
business with her, however, for finding out what I 
wanted and how soon, she thought her business 
was not far enough advanced to undertake so large 
an order to be filled in so short a time. So I left 
her, and, as it appears, my glove also.’ 


214 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

“ ‘Had you ever known her before ? ’ asked Mr. 
Blackbeard. 

“ ‘No, sir,’ I replied, as respectfully as two peas. 

“ ‘Never had heard of her ? ’ he persisted. 

“ ‘Never knew such a person existed until Mr. 
Newton talked of her,’ I replied. 

“ ‘Did you not read of her being murdered,” 
again asked Mr. Blackbeard. 

“ ‘Oh yes,’ was my reply. 

“ ‘Why didn’t you speak of it then?’ he de- 
manded. 

“ ‘I did in my family,’ I answered. 

‘‘ ‘To your father,’ he suggested. 

“‘Perhaps. I spoke of it at the table, but 
whether my father was present or not I do not recol- 
lect. My talk was with my mother and sisters?’ 

“JUm,’ grunted Mr. Blackbeard. ‘Why didn’t 
you speak to the authorities about it?’ 

“ ‘Why should I?’ asked I in return. ‘I couldn’t 
contribute anything to the general or special informa- 
tion, and my name was not mentioned in connection 
with the affair.’ 

“ ‘You had lost your glove there,’ persisted Mr. 
Blackbeard! ‘Were you not afraid you would be 
charged with the murder?’ 

“ ‘In the first place!’ I returned, ‘I did not know 
I had lost a glove there. In the second place, not 
being engaged in murder as a fine art, or as a trade, 
it did not occur to me that any one would charge 
me with it.’ 

‘‘That delicate and entirely ingenious reference 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 215 

to De Quincy was a settler for Mr. Blackbeard. 
The Captain came at me then : 

“ ‘You have studied surgery, haven’t you?’ 

“ ‘Well, I have pretended to’ — thus me, most 
modestly. 

“ ‘Mrs. Farish was killed by one who knew how to 
reach the carotid artery with a lancet and with great 
precision,’ he suggested, and I thought maliciously. 

“ ‘I never reached a carotid artery with a lancet 
or precision, or with any other kind of an instru- 
ment. ’ 

“That brilliant witticism was lost upon them, for 
neither even smiled. 

“‘It is as I expected,’ said Mr. Blackbeard. 
‘Ever since suspicion was directed toward him, I 
have not doubted he could explain the glove 
business.’ 

“This was addressed to the Captain in so lugubri- 
ous a tone that my sympathies were excited. So 
I said: 

“ ‘Sir, I greatly grieve to have been the cause of 
such disappointment. The next time I lose a glove, 
where a woman may fall upon it, so as not to grieve 
you, I will engage in the gentle pastime of assassina- 
tion.’ 

“At this the Captain laughed outright, and we 
all became quite merry. After which he said: 

“ ‘I think you have satisfactorily explained your 
connection with the case. You ought not to wonder 
at our wanting to see you, in view of finding your 
glove there.’ 


21 6 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“‘What time did you call on Mrs. Farish?’ 
inquired Mr. Blackbeard, by this time having 
recovered from my settler. 

“ ‘ I should think at about half-past eight, * I 
answered, holding no malice against him. 

“ ‘Was her daughter with her?’ 

“ ‘Her daughter,’ I repeated. ‘No, I saw her 
alone. And now that I recollect, she said she 
wished her daughter would come in, not alone 
because she wanted to consult her as to the possi- 
bility of undertaking my work, but because she was 
worried over her delay in returning from business.’ 

“•‘Um,’ grunted Mr. Blackbeard. ‘It is as I 
supposed. Her daughter was killed first.’ -Then 
to me, ‘You have no other incident to give us?’ 

“ ‘None!’ I replied. 

Whereupon the Captain, rising and giving me his 
hand, said: 

“ ‘We will detain you no longer.’ 

“So, after exchanging our distinguished consid- 
erations, as became dignitaries, I went out into the 
free air-r a free ma-an. 

“With the end of this o’er true tale,’’ concluded 
Eustace, “comes this reflective inquiry — how the 
deuce did they discover that glove to be mine?’’ 

Dorison had listened to Eustace intently and with 
varying emotions. It was with difficulty he could 
prevent expressing exuberant satisfaction over the 
outcome. He was inexpressibly glad that the test 
Eustace had been subjected to had ended as it had — 
that is to say, in a triumphant clearance of Eustace. 


EUSTACE IN THE TOILS. 


217 


He made no doubt of it, and as he thought then he 
did not believe he had ever judged Eustace to be 
anything but innocent. As it was, he said warmly, 
he was glad it had ended so well, since he had been 
greatly frightened. 

“You take it too seriously, my friend,” said 
Eustace. 

“No, I do not,” replied Dorison. “But that you 
were enabled to present names to substantiate your 
story you might have been in an awkward predica- 
ment, with annoying publicity.” 

“Bless my heart, but I never thought of that,” 
said Eustace. “I think you are right. And I also 
think it is time to dine. Come with me, and after 
dinner we’ll go to the theater.” 

“I’ll dine with you, but I have a business engage- 
ment for this evening,” he replied, as he prepared 
to go out with his friend. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A MYSTERY REVEALED. 

L EAVING young Eustace after dinner, Dorison 
went at once to the rooms of the old detective. 
A single glance informed him that the old man 
was in a happy humor. 

“I received a note from you in the early after- 
noon,” said Dorison, ‘‘but all of it I could under- 
stand was that you desired to see me this evening. 
And here I am.” 

‘‘You are not quick of comprehension. I meant 
your case is as plain as a pikestaff. You had, or 
have, a brother — the latter I think.” 

Dorison stared in astonishment at the detective, 
his anger rising at the same time. However much 
he had in his own heart condemned his father for 
the charge which, for eight years, had embittered 
his life, he was not willing others should cast reflec- 
tions upon him. 

But Cathcart was not a man to regard the emo- 
tions of others, and though, doubtless, he quickly 
enough perceived the anger of the young man, 
without preface, apology, or effort to soften the 
news he had given him, he went directly at the 
statement. 

Very soon Dorison’s anger was lost in the astonish- 
218 


A MYSTERY REVEALED. 219 

ment the story gave rise to, and when he learned 
that all this had been obtained from Mr. Eustace, 
he could not deny that it was conclusive. 

“Now,” continued Cathcart, “As I say, it is as 
plain as a pikestaff. I have reasoned the whole 
thing out to a certain conclusion, my reasoning being 
based upon information obtained from Mr. Eustace, 
papers of your father I have had access to, confirm- 
ing them by public records and the examination of 
books of private institutions, and that unfinished 
letter. I shall not waste time by going over the 
processes, but will give you my conclusions in the 
shape of a statement: 

‘ ‘ When your father was twenty-one or three he 
met Emma Ludlow, a very pretty girl, daughter of 
a costumer of Chatham Street. Ludlow was an 
Englishman who had in his own country been con- 
nected with a family of prominence. There drifted 
to this country one of the younger members of that 
family, named Farish, who also saw the girl Emma, 
and desired to marry her. The father felt honored 
that one of the family he had been a servant in, 
desired to marry his daughter, and having the 
notions of parental authority Englishmen entertain, 
and overlooking the faults of the man Farish, which 
were so great he was ^compelled to leave England, 
opposed your father and forced the marriage with 
Farish. Subsequently, your father yielded to the 
wishes of his family and married Mary Clavering, 
your mother. That marriage was an exceedingly 
happy one, notwithstanding the previous romance. 


2 20 the man with a thumb . 

Your father and mother had been married twelve 
years when you were born — the youngest of a family 
of five, the elder of whom had all died. When you 
were four, your mother died. A year later your 
father met Mrs. Farish, then, as he understood, and 
as she believed, a childless widow. His love 
returned for her, and he secretly married her. 
Why, does not yet appear, but his excuse was he was 
retiring from business and did not want to announce 
his second marriage until that project was fully 
accomplished. After two years of this sort of life, 
during which two children, a boy and girl, were 
born, Anne and Harold Farish, the husband turned 
up on the scene, to separate your father and the 
woman. Mrs. Farish was a good woman, and 
although Farish, who seems to have been a scamp, 
was paid well to keep away and make no scandal, his 
wife insisted upon an absolute severance of rela- 
tions between your father and herself. In view, 
however, of all that had happened, your father pro- 
vided well for her and his children. In 1854 he 
gave her the house she lived and was murdered in, 
and fifty thousand dollars, which he invested for 
her, I suppose. 

“The low spirits your father showed at that time 
were not due to his having retired from business, 
but to this unfortunate complication. The children 
grew, and the boy early went wrong. Between the 
years he was sixteen and nineteen, he committed 
defalcations and forgeries, the latter principally of 
your father’s name, which indicates that he knew 


A MYSTERY REVEALED. 


221 


of his relation to your father, and which were paid 
by his father and yours, and as well, much more 
money to save him from punishment — foolishly to 
be sure, but compelled to it to save the good name 
of the woman, the mother, if for no other reason. 
This used up the property. When he died he was 
appealing to Mr. Eustace for assistance. When 
he died the scamp Harold disappeared. Three 
years ago he appeared again and ruined his mother 
by his insatiable demands and — ” 

“And,” interrupted Dorison excitedly, “he is 
Harry Langdon and murdered his mother and 
sister.” 

“Such would seem to be the logical- conclusions,” 
said the detective calmly. 

A thousand questions crowded tumultuously upon 
the brain of Dorison. He did not know which to 
ask first — he wanted to ask them all at-once. Finally, 
he said : 

“But do you know all this to be true?” 

“No, not in its entirety,” replied Cathcart. “Some 
of it I do know to be true, the rest I sincerely 
believe. It is now, however, a mere work of time 
to verify everything. The mystery is solved. The 
ungrateful son is Harold Farish, alias Harry Lang- 
don.” 

“But what was the cause of the murder — that was 
a horrible thing to do,” asked Dorison. 

“There I have proof I think of the accuracy of 
my theory in the beginning. I said the object of 
the murders was not robbery, but the possession of 


222 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


documents of value to somebody. I assume they 
were proofs of crimes committed, forgeries and the 
like, which so long as they were held by the mother 
and sister, were a protection to a certain extent to 
them, and a menace to him. And perhaps — and we 
will not quite know until we force the rascal to con- 
fession — some one pursuing him was on track of 
them and he was determined to secure and destroy 
them, and perhaps, which I think even more prob- 
able, one other reason, to obtain an order for a 
large sum, possession of which would secure posses- 
sion of the sum, which he thought they held. Of 
this, however, I will not speak at present for reasons 
of my own.” 

‘ ‘Do you then think the murders were deliber- 
ately planned?” 

“No. The first, that of the daughter, was unpre- 
meditated, but was done in a moment of exaspera- 
tion. The second — of the mother — was a conse- 
quence of the first, as a matter of self-preservation.” 

Horrified and much excited, Dorison was silent. 
His head was in a whirl, and every moment fresh 
thoughts, each one coming to him as a shock, occur* 
red. The murderer was his half-brother ; the beast, 
Harry Langdon, was his half-brother. The same 
blood coursed in their veins. The passions and 
emotions which possessed him he could not stop to 
analyze, they succeeded each other so rapidly — in- 
deed, became so entangled and exhausted him so with 
their violence, that he became confused and sick, 
incapable of thinking clearly; but over all, as a 


A MYSTERY REVEALED. 


223 


lambent light, was the thought that his own name 
was clear and he could walk erect among other men 
in his own person. 

Cathcart was the first to break the silence. 

. “Your friend, young Eustace, is out of it, 7 he 
said. 

Dorison roused up with something like a start. 

“Yes,” he said, “he told me. He came straight 
from you to me.” 

“Did he know who he had talked with,” asked 
Cathcart anxiously. 

“No,” replied Dorison, “but I recognized his 
description of the black-bearded man.” 

“I do not want him to know that the man to whom 
his father told that story, and the one who helped 
to examine him, were the same. I do not want him 
to know that you ever suspected or watched him.” 

“He will never know from me. I am far more 
anxious than you. I cannot look upon that part 
of the search with anything* but self-contempt.” 

‘ ‘But I never believed he was in it,” said Cathcart. 

“Why then,” asked Dorison hotly, “did you force 
me to an intimacy with that idea in view?” 

“Because the glove business must be explained, 
but principally because, early in my search into your 
part of the affair, I had come upon the intimate 
relation of the elder Eustace to the elder Dorison, 
through Cousin Nettleman, and I foresaw then an 
intimacy with the family would be a necessary 
thing, and that I might have to use you to elicit the 
information I wanted. At the time I could not 


224 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


give you the details, but I had to give you a reason 
for seeking the intimacy, since you are one of those 
uncomfortable persons to work with who must have 
a reason for everything. But your blundering, and 
the - coolness which you permitted to grow up 
between the elder Eustace and yourself, necessitated 
my doing the work I intended for you. As it is, 
I am glad it turned out as it did. You could never 
have gotten the story.” 

Agitated and excited as he was, Dorison appre- 
ciated the truth of the old man’s words. 

‘‘You do not know the reason of the old man’s 
coolness to you?” 

“No.” 

“I do.” 

“What?” asked Dorison eagerly. 

“He suspected you to be the son of Dorison by 
Mrs. Farish.” 

“Oh!” The possibility of such a thing had not 
occurred to Dorison. 

“But that is no reason why he should treat me 
coldly, since, as you have told me, he was not then, 
at least, aware of the bad character of that son.” 

“There was a stain on the birth of that son of the 
elder Dorison.” 

“Even then it should have appeared more as a 
misfortune than a crime of the parents.” 

“True, so far as he might have looked Upon 
such a son in the abstract, but as a person whom 
he had received as an equal into his house, was 
entertaining as a guest at his own board, and bring- 


A MYSTERY REVEALED. 


225 


ing him into associations with his daughters, there 
was a great difference to a man of his views of life 
and of his station. He would naturally draw a line 
on a man of such birth at his own door, commisera- 
ting the man for the necessity at the same time.” 

“True. You are right,” replied Dorison thought- 
fully. 

“I think you ought to appear before the elder 
Eustace now in your own person.” 

Dorison was startled at the idea, and shrank 
from it. 

‘‘Are you so certain of your case then?” he asked. 

‘‘I am absolutely certain. It is now a mere mat- 
ter of time to prove it in all its details.” 

‘‘But will he receive me courteously after having 
appeared to him under a different name?” 

‘‘I have very much misjudged the man, if he is 
not much interested in the legitimate son of Reuben 
Dorison, sympathizing greatly with his misfortunes, 
and anxious by reason of the service rendered him 
by his father, to actively assist the son of that father. ” 

‘‘Ah!” Yet Dorison was doubtful. He thought 
Mr. Eustace would be prejudiced against him by 
reason of his masquerade. 

‘‘I think,” continued Cathcart, “that Mr. Eustace, 
with his high social position and his honorable repu- 
tation, will be a very great aid to you in the rehabil- 
itation of your name. His friendship and patronage 
will do more for you than a thousand explanations. 
Indeed, without the assistance of some such person, 
explanations will be of little avail. I will write a 


226 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

letter to him that will make all things straight, which 
you shall carry to him.” 

Acting upon the thought immediately, Cathcart 
turned to his table and began writing. 

Dorison sat by, lost in wonder over the patient 
subtlety the old man had displayed in reaching the 
secret of that unfinished letter. 

When Cathcart had finished the letter he inclosed 
it in an envelope which he sealed. As he handed 
it to Dorison he said : 

“Take that to Mr. Eustace to-morrow. It is too 
late to-night. I have sealed it, because I have 
asked Mr. Eustace not to mention to you a certain 
matter which I think well to be concealed from you 
for a time.” 

Dorison was now too well accustomed to the pecu- 
liar frankness of the old man to either wonder at or 
combat it. As he received the letter he said: 

‘‘Do you intend to cause the arrest of this Lang- 
don right away?” 

‘‘No. Not until I have verified some matters 
and have obtained some further information con- 
cerning him, that I may use to wrest a confession 
from him.” 

‘‘He may escape you.” 

‘‘No, he suspects nothing, and besides he is 
shadowed every step he takes — by more than one 
too.” 

The hour being late, Dorison departed. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 

W HEN Dorison left the house in which were 
Cathcart’s rooms, he was still in a whirl and 
confusion of thought. The dream he had enter- 
tained for eight years seemed on the point of reali- 
zation. If the old detective were to be believed, 
it was even then practically realized. And the 
revelation had come, so far as he was concerned, 
at a moment when he was sunk into the deepest pit 
of despair — when the «case looked darker and more 
hopeless than ever. 

So marvelously had it all worked out, thought 
Dorison as he walked along — so strangely had he 
been led by impulse to return to the city; and so 
curiously had he been brought into relation with 
Mr. Nettleman and then into connection with the 
murder of Anne Farish, thus bringing him again 
into relations with Cathcart, that he could not but 
feel that he was in the hands of a Power whose 
movements he could not even attempt to comprehend. 

As in a dream he walked along. The house occu- 
pied by the old detective was further from Broad- 
way than from the Bowery. So it came that he had 
some distance to walk before he reached the former 
street. 


227 


228 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


He was aroused by the noise of a stumble behind 
him, and turning quickly received simultaneously a 
severe blow upon his left forearm, a blow evidently 
intended for his head, and so powerful as too send 
him to the pavement. At the same time he heard 
a cry. 

“Ah, you rascals!” 

This cry frightened his assailants, who dashed 
across the street and were lost in the darkness. 

By the time the one who cried out had come run- 
ning up, Dorison, faint with pain, had struggled to 
his feet. 

“The woman was right. I should have heeded 
her warning,” he muttered, confusedly, to the man 
who had come to his assistance, and who was none 
other than the officer Cathcart had instructed to 
follow Dorison as a protection. 

“You must return at once to the chief,” said 
the officer. “Are you much hurt?” 

“My arm pains me a good deal,” replied Dori- 
son, “but it is better than if it were my head.” 

The officer hurried him to Cathcart’s apartments. 

The old detective comprehended the situation 
before he could be informed by the officer. 

“Where were you hit?” he asked. 

“On the left arm,” replied Dorison. 

Quickly and gently the old man bared the injured 
member. 

“Iam not a surgeon,” he said, as he manipulated 
the arm, “but I can generally tell whether bones are 
broken or not.” 


AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 229 

He looked serious as he plied it. To the officer 
he said, “Get a coach as quickly as you can.” 

Leading Dorison to a lounge he laid him upon it, 
saying, “Rest there a moment; I cannot tell 
whether your arm is broken or not. We will go 
immediately to a surgeon. By Heavens!” he cried 
to himself, “that is an idea, and he is not far off.” 

He sprang to his bureau and opening the lower 
drawer took out a light gray wig and beard. With 
a rapidity that astonished Dorison, watching him in 
great pain as he was, the old detective put them 
on, and with the use of cosmetic, rouge and powder, 
presented in a moment an entirely different face 
and head. Darting into an adjoining room he 
issued a moment or two later in a black broadcloth 
suit. To put a gold chain around his neck and to 
assume a gold eye-glass secured by a small gold 
chain, was the work of a moment more, and when 
completed, he was a prosperous merchant or bank r, 
ready to receive the announcement of the officer who 
entered, that the carriage was ready. 

The interest of this strange proceeding was so 
great to Dorison that he had not asked a question, 
contenting himself with watching. 

“Come,” said Cathcart, “I will take you to a 
physician — a surgeon.” 

As Dorison, with the help of the others, arose, 
Cathcart said to the officer, “You are to go with us. ’ ’ 

After Dorison had been placed in the carriage 
Cathcart told the driver to go to No. — Tenth Street, 
Dr. Fassett. 


230 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

Even this conveyed nothing to Dorison, some- 
what dazed with the pain he was enduring. 

Dr. Fassett was in, and they were at once taken 
into his consulting room. 

The surgeon bared the arm and examined it. 

“I should say this injury was inflicted with a sand 
club. What are the circumstances?” 

Before Dorison could reply, Cathcart interfered. 

“Robbery, I should say. This young man, who 
is my nephew, was passing along Bond Street. My 
friend and myself were some distance behind him, 
when three men rushed from a place of concealment 
upon him. He heard them, for he turned, and a 
blow aimed for his head fell upon his arm. My 
friend cried out, ‘Ah, you rascals!’ and they fled 
without inflicting further injury. Calling a car- 
riage, I drove right here, for I had heard my friend 
Eustace speak of your skill.’’ 

The surgeon had been manipulating the arm 
while Cathcart was talking. 

“No bones are broken, I am sure,’’ he said. 
“Take him home immediately, and apply cloths 
dipped in hot water, as hot as he can stand it, and 
keep this up constantly for four or five hours. 
Then to-morrow morning bring him here to me 
before ten o’clock.’’ 

The physcian was curt, prompt, and imperative. 
Cathcart was disposed to engage him in conversa- 
tion. But Dr. Fassett ended further talk by say- 
ing: 

“I have told you what to do. You must not 


AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 231 

detain me. I have an important case, and must go 
out now.” 

“Can we not set you down where you want to 
go?” asked the old detective. 

“What you want to do,” said the doctor, “is to 
get your nephew under treatment of hot water as 
soon as you can.” 

There was nothing left on this but to go, and 
they did, with very bad grace upon the part of the 
old detective. 

“That was a misplay,” he said, as he entered the 
carriage. “I hoped to be able to talk with him so 
as to bring in Langdon. I want to know what the 
doctor knows about him. Not much, perhaps, but 
everything counts in this business. However, 1 will 
have a chance at him to-morrow morning.” 

“That was the physician that knocked Miss 
Eustace down, on Broadway, with his horses,” 
said Dorison faintly. “He did not recognize me.” 

Arriving at Dorison’s apartments, to which they 
were rapidly driven, Cathcart and the officer devoted 
themselves to the treatment recommended by the 
surgeon, after which, and putting Dorison into his 
bed, Cathcart dismissed the officer, with instructions 
to go to his rooms in Bond Street early in the 
morning, and bring what mail he might find there 
to him before nine. Then he laid himself down on 
the lounge to sleep. 

The treatment he had been subjected to eased the 
pain that Dorison had been suffering from, yet he 
lay a long time unable to sleep. The events of the 


232 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

day and evening had been many and startling. 
They were destined to have a very considerable 
influence upon his life. Just what, he could not tell, 
but one thing was certain, it would now be turned 
into another channel than that he had followed 
for the past eight years. Though he tossed on his 
bed because of the excitement of the day, Cathcart 
slumbered so peacefully and easily, that Dorison 
became unreasonably provoked with him. 

However, as the morning light streamed into the 
windows, he fell into a sleep, from which he was 
aroused shortly after eight by Cathcart and bidden 
to dress and partake of the breakfast he had sent 
for. He was barely prepared for it before the officer 
entered with Mr. Cathcart’s mail. 

Among the letters was a telegram which Cathcart 
opened. Reading it, he handed it to Dorison, Avith 
an expression of satisfaction and the remark: 

“Confirmations are beginning to come.” 

Dorson read it. It ran : 

“ Langdon was knoAvn as Harry Farishhere seven 
years ago — then a mere boy ; aftenvards got into 
prison. Turned up in Chicago five years ago as 
Harry Langdon. See letter mailed to-night.” 

“That settles that part of the theory,” remarked 
Cathcart. 

Having partaken of the breakfast, Cathcart pro- 
posed to set out to call upon Dr. Fassett. 

To this Dorison demurred. His arm, though stiff 
and sore, however needed no more treatment than 
had been given it. 


An unexpected turn. 


233 

But Cathcart said : 

“No; I took advantage of your accident to get 
to Dr. Fassett naturally, and we must go to fulfill 
the purpose I was balked in last night. How much 
Fassett may know about Langdon is uncertain, but 
I propose to obtain all he does know. . Your injury 
gives us the natural excuse.” 

Therefore they set out. On arriving at the house 
of the physician and entering, the reception room 
was found to be not only full, but actually crowded. 

Dr. Fassett happened to be in the hall at the 
moment of entering, and said: 

“I am afraid you will have to wait a little time, 
for I have a nice operation on hand.” To his 
attendant he said, “James, take these gentlemen 
into my private office,” and disappeared. 

The attendant was evidently astonished. “I’ve 
been with Dr. Fassett three years,” he said as he led 
the way, “but I’ve never known this to occur before, 
though I’ve seen them sitting in the hall before this. ’ ’ 

Cathcart whispered to the officer to remain in the 
hall. 

The private office of the physician was a small 
room, evidently an extension from the main building, 
for it was lighted pleasantly from the side. 

Between the two windows was a small roller-top 
desk. In the center a flat table where the physi- 
cian evidently did his writing. At one window was 
a large operating-chair, but devoted by its owner to 
the purpose of ease. A low easy-chair, into which 
Dorison dropped, was on the side of the center 


234 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


table, opposite to that on which the writing-chair 
stood. In the corner was an iron safe, the heavy 
door of which was open, the inner one only being 
closed. 

So soon as the door was shut upon the attendant 
Cathcart began a minute examination of the room, 
much to Dorison’s annoyance, who thought his 
companion was displaying an impertinent curiosity. 

He even opened the portfolio of the doctor and 
turned over its leaves. Between two of them was 
a letter partly written, and Cathcart did not scruple 
to read it. Nor a letter addressed to the physician. 

Unable to contain himself longer, Dorison pro- 
tested, intimating that it was highly improper to 
read the private papers of a gentleman who had 
trusted them to the extent of turning them into his 
own private room. 

To this Cathcart made no answer, but asked 
coolly : 

“Didn’t that woman say that Langdon had some 
hold on Dr. Fassett?” 

“Yes.” 

“And young Eustace suspected something of the 
kind from the way in which Langdon treated 
Fassett?’’ 

“Yes.’’ 

“Well, they are both right, I should judge, from 
these things. This letter,’’ taking up one, “is 
signed ‘Harry,’ and intimates that they must have 
some more business from the doctor, or the fur will 
fly. This one,’’ taking up the one partially com- 


AN UNEXPECTED TURN. ^35 

pleted, “tells Harry that there will be no more 
business; that he has been his servant as long as he 
ever will be, and that the end is reached, since he 
is now in a position to do for Harry what Harry 
threatened to do for the writer. It seems to be a 
declaration of independence.” 

He closed the book, leaving it precisely as he 
found it. On the mantel-piece he found a case of 
instruments and became much interested in it, tak- 
ing out each one and examining it closely, putting 
them back one by one. 

Every visible object in the room seemed to go 
under his touch ; but when he went to the roller-top 
desk, and taking a wire from his pocket deliberately 
picked the lock and softly moved up the top, Dori- 
son could stand it no longer. 

“If you do not end this thing,” he cried, “I cer- 
tainly shall ask the doctor to come here.” 

“Be quiet,” said Cathcart contemptuously. 
“Everything is grist that comes to my mill.” 

His search was not rewarded, and he closed the 
desk. 

The safe now claimed his attention. The key 
had been left carelessly in the inner door; calmly 
turning it he threw it open and as calmly and coolly 
inspected its contents. Perceiving in one of the 
pigeon-holes a bundle, he took it out and ran over 
the ends of it. This seemed to be interesting to 
him, for he closed the door, turned the key and 
walked to one of the windows. Taking off the 
elastics which bound it he shuffled the various papers 


236 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


in his fingers and putting the rubber-bands on again 
went back to the safe as if he intended to restore 
them, — then turning quickly on his heel, went to 
the door and called the officer, who was awaiting 
him in the hall. 

To Dorison he now turned and said: 

“I have found something which will throw some 
light on Harold Farish and the relations existing 
between him and Fassett.” 

Dorison was about to protest, but he observed 
that the old man’s eyes were flashing fire. 

To the officer who entered he said: 

“I want you to sit down here and keep your 
mouth shut.” 

He put the package of papers in the inner pocket 
of his coat, and going to the center-table leaned 
against it, thrusting his hands in his vest-pockets 
and dropping his chin on his breast. 

There was something so extraordinary in his 
manner that both men watched him silently. 

Perhaps ten minutes elapsed, when the attendant 
opened the door and said that the doctor would see 
them. 

Dorison rose to obey the summons, but Cathcart 
waved him back with an imperious gesture. 

“Tell the doctor,” he said, “to come here — it is 
important.” 

The attendant disappeared, and Dorison looked 
to the old detective for an explanation. 

None was forthcoming. 

In a moment more Dr. Fassett hurried in, with a 


AN UNEXPECTED TURN. 237 

frown of impatience and annoyance clouding his 
brow. 

“Close the door,” said Cathcart to the officer. 
Then stepping quickly to the physician and lay- 
ing his hand on his shoulder he said : 

“Dr. Fassett, I arrest you for the murders of 
Emma Farish and Anne Farish.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

STRANGE REVELATIONS. 

T HE doctor staggered back as white as the wall 
against which he fell. 

Dorison and the officer sprang to their feet, 
astounded and horror-stricken. For a brief moment 
Dorison entertained the idea that Cathcart had 
taken leave of his senses. 

But what thoughts either might have had were 
diverted by the mad rush the doctor made at 
Cathcart. 

The officer and Dorison, despite his injured arm, 
leaped to the assistance of the old man. 

Had Cathcart anticipated the attack ? He was 
not, at all events, taken unaware : for stepping 
lightly aside, he caught the doctor by the throat, 
and would have himself incapacitated the infuriated 
man without the assistance promptly given him. 

“You will not do another,” he said fiercely to 
his prisoner. 

Firmly held by the officer, with his arms twisted 
behind his back, the doctor was helpless. To make 
his hold more secure, the officer placed his knee 
against the doctor’s back and bent him over back- 
wards. 

In impotent rage the doctor gnashed his teeth. 
238 


STRANGE REVELATIONS . 239 

“How do you know this? It is a lie! It is a lie! 
You couldn’t have known it,” he cried huskily. 

He made a mighty struggle to free himself, and 
Cathcart went to the assistance of the officer. 

“Take the handcuffs from my inside pocket,’’ 
said the officer to Dorison, who did as he was 
requested. 

In a moment more they were snapped upon the 
struggling man’s wrists. Even then he fought and 
wrestled until he was thrown down and his ankles 
tied with a stout twine. 

“I did not come prepared for this sort of busi- 
ness,’’ said the panting officer. 

“None of us did,’’ replied Cathcart. Then to 
the doctor he said : 

“You do not help yourself by such struggles. 
I’ve had many a man in your fix before.’’ 

“What imp of hell are you?’’ hissed the physician 
from between his teeth. 

“My name is Simon Cathcart,’’ replied the old 
man quietly. 

The name appeared to calm the doctor, and he 
muttered : 

“ ‘The Devil of the West!’ Harry said he was 
in the city; Well,’’ he cried aloud, “its a lie. 
Why do you charge me, one of New York’s foremost 
physicians and surgeons, with such a thing?’ ’ 

“Because you killed those two helpless and inof- 
fensive women, that’s why.” 

The cold, positive tone of the old detective 
enraged him again. 


240 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB \ 


“Its a lie. You couldn’t have known it. No- 
body could.” 

“Bah!” replied Cathcart, “you’re a baby. You 
don’t even know enough to cover your tracks. 
When I first saw the bodies, I knew a physician, a 
surgeon, had done the job. You couldn’t keep 
the shop out of it. You cut the carotid artery in 
each case, not as a bungler, but as a surgeon per- 
forms an operation.” 

The idea that the crime might be traced to a sur- 
geon in this way had not occurred to the doctor, 
and he seemed frightened at the sagacious penetra- 
tion displayed by the detective. 

“You did it with a lancet,” continued Cath- 
cart. And taking the one the servant had found 
on the floor from his pocket, he added: “And 
with this lancet, which you foolishly left behind you 
after the second murder. And this lancet came 
from this case.” 

The old man crossed to the mantel-piece, and tak- 
ing up the case, continued, as he opened it: 

“It belongs to this set. It is precisely the same 
make — same tortoise-shell handle, and here is the 
place from which it came — a vacant place waiting for 
it since the 5th day of October. Bah! You haven’t 
even attempted to cover your tracks. You, a smart 
man.” 

The physician, apparently crushed and humil- 
iated, turned a look of horror upon the merciless 
old man. 

Dorison, filled with pity for the poor wretch, 


STRANGE REVELATIONS. 


241 


failing to realize that the murderer of his half-sister 
lay bound before him, thought Cathcart brutal in 
his triumph over the prisoner. But the old man 
had a purpose in the course he was pursuing. 

“Bah ! If you were as skillful a murderer as you 
are a surgeon, you would not have made tracking so 
easy. Your very skill as a surgeon undid you, and 
it was only a question as to when we would get 
around to you. Murder is a fine art a man said 
yesterday. When a man undertakes to do two in 
one night he wants to be a master of the art.” 

The man on the floor made a gallant effort to 
retrieve himself. He was not a coward. He had 
been overwhelmed by the unexpected blow. But 
now that vigorous brain came into action, he re- 
covered self-possession, and was cool and master of 
himself. 

“You are very keen,” he said with a sneer. “Do 
you know that a thousand such cases of instruments 
can be found in the city, and that surgeons usu- 
ally carry their lancets in their pockets. If you will 
permit one of these gentlemen to feel in my right- 
hand vest-pocket.you will find another lancet exactly 
similar to the one you have in your hand.” 

The total change in the manner of the physician 
startled Dorison, and his words made him believe 
Cathcart had made a blunder in arresting the doctor 
on so slight a ground. 

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Cathcart calmly. 
“And you take my word that I’ll find the case to 
which it belongs in your consulting room.” 


242 THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 

The expression passing over the doctor’s face 
assured Cathcart that his hazard had been a winning 
one. 

Dorison experienced a revulsion, and was de- 
ceived, supposing that, unobserved by him, the old 
detective had made the discovery the previous 
evening when the doctor was examining his arm. 

“Yes, you carried the lancet in your vest-pocket 
the night you went to Bleecker Street to kill that 
poor girl,” continued Cathcart, “and you put it 
back in your vest-pocket when you hufried to East 
Sixteenth Street too kill the poor mother in the 
same manner. There, however, you left it on the 
floor behind you.’’ 

There was a rap at the door. Cathcart sprang to 
it hastily. It was the attendant desiring to tell the 
doctor that those in waiting were becoming impatient. 

“Dismiss them all, and say that the doctor will 
be unable to see any more to-day,’’ and he closed 
the door. 

“There is no escape for you, Dr. Fassett. The 
whole of the story is plain. I will tell it, not 
because it will be new to you, but because it will 
show that there is no use for you to struggle against 
your fate. 

“You committed a crime in your younger days. 
Harry Langdon, alias Harold Farish, was cognizant 
of it and held you so firmly in his grip that you 
were a slave to his orders.’’ 

“Ah, the doggish hound! He has informed on 
me, has he?’’ interrupted the doctor, “You have 


STRANGE REVELATIONS. 243 

him then, have you? Well, even then that proves 
nothing as to this charge.” 

“You knew he was a criminal, but you had no 
proof of it,” continued Cathcart, as if Fassett had 
not spoken. “You knew there was evidence of his 
crimes in the hands of those poor women, his 
mother and sister.” 

Dorison was quite as much surprised at this as 
was the doctor, who could not perceive that the old 
man was doing some shrewd guess-work. 

“You wanted that proof,” continued Cathcart, 
“that you might be free from that slavery, against 
which your proud, arrogant spirit chafed. You 
determined to obtain it. You had information it 
was in the hands of the sister. She was in the cos- 
tumer’s shop in Bleecker Street, as you knew. You 
sought her there, and found her looking over docu- 
ments you thought were the ones you wanted. You 
begged her to give them to you. You would not 
believe her when she told you she had them not. 
You threatened her, and when she insisted that those 
which she had in her hands were net what you 
wanted, you attempted to take them by force. She 
resisted, and in a moment of exasperation, without 
premeditation, frantic with rage and her resistance 
and mad with desire, you killed her and seized them. 
They were not what you wanted. You found that 
out after you had escaped by the rear, through the 
drinking saloon. They were letters written by Reu- 
ben Dorison to Emma Farish.” 

Notwithstanding there was the assumption of a 


244 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 


sneer upon the physician’s face, there was in his 
eyes an expression of utter amazement, and he mut- 
tered to himself under his breath. 

“Do you deny this?” asked Cathcart, sternly. 

‘‘Give me those slips,” he said, turning sharply 
to Dorison. The young man was so absorbed in 
the vivid and graphic description the old detective 
was giving of the murder, as to believe for the time 
that he must have been an eye-witness of it, that Cath- 
cart was forced to repeat the demand. Mechanically 
taking out his pocket-book he handed the slips to 
the old detective, a proceeding Fassett regarded 
with interest not unmixed with curiosity. 

“These slips, ” continued Cathcart, holding them 
before the eyes of Fassett, were found in that room, 
within a quarter of an hour after your departure — 
one on the floor, one in the hand of the murdered 
girl.” 

Taking out the package he had removed from 
the safe he slipped out two letters. The expression 
of curiosity fled from the doctor’s eyes; in its stead 
came one of alarm. He quickly glanced at the safe 
in the corner. He realized it all in that one glance. 

A frightful imprecation broke from his lips. 

“You are a thief,” he yelled. 

“No,” calmly replied the old man. “I have only 
taken that which you thieved on the night you 
murdered. You see how these slips fit into the 
letters from which they were torn in your struggle 
with the poor girl. We will read the whole letter 
now. ’ ’ 


STRANGE REVELATIONS. 


245 




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The detective, laying the letter upon the table, 
turned to Dorison, saying: 

“There is a message from the grave of your 
father, John Dorison.” 

“Who?” cried Dr. Fassett. “Who is that ? That 
is Dudley.” 


246 THE MAN WITH A THUMB . 

“No,” said Cathcart. “That is John Dorison, 
son of Reuben, who for eight years has suffered for 
the sins of Harry Langdon, your friend, his half- 
brother. He is the half-brother of your victim.” 

All of this was beginning to tell upon the bound 
man, and he showed it in his face. 

“Great God!” he cried. “What a revelation 

Cathcart waited for him to say more, but the 
doctor relapsed into gloomy silence. The old man 
took up the other. 

“This slip,”* he said, “fits into this letter, and 
we will have some more testimony from the dead.” 

“The letters from w'hich these slips were torn were 
found in your safe. Do you want more proof? 
Well then, you hastened to Sixteenth Street, 
knowing that you had killed one person needlessly 
and yet must have the documents. There you found 
the mother alone, and there you demanded the 
documents and were refused. You were desperate 
and reckless now. The struggle this time did not 
precede the murder. Your hand was in, and, 
quickly dispatching her, you ravished her bosom of 
the documents you had waded through blood to 
secure. With them in your hands, dropping your 
lancet as you went, you hurried away, and" — hesita- 
ting a moment, Cathcart added, “and with them 
in your pocket you hastened to the hospital, where 
you were already overdue, and with calm hand set 
a man’s broken leg.” 

“Here are the documents,” continued the old 


* See facsimile letter on next page. 


STRANGE REVELATIONS. 


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24 & the MAH WITH A THUMB. 

detective, tapping the package he held in his hand, 
“forged notes and checks by Harold Farish, and 
other proofs of his crimes, the marriage, certificates 
of Reuben Dorison and Emma Farish, and some 
other matters.” 

The poor wretch, completely overwhelmed by 
the overpowering circumstantiality of the proof piled 
up against him, gave up resistance. 

He laughed, a bitter, reckless, despairing laugh. 

“Yes,” he said, “you know all. The devil himself 
must have been your informant, for you could not 
have guessed so correctly You have other proof 
behind. It is not likely you have exhausted every- 
thing yet. I confess it. It is fate. Fate has con- 
quered me. I have tried to live down the first 
error, but it has followed me to the end and run 
me down. Lift me into a chair. I have nothing 
now to conceal.” 

The officer and Cathcart lifted the man from the 
floor and placed him in a chair. 

Dorison, wrought up to the highest pitch, found 
himself full of pity for the despairing wretch, who 
had given up all hope and ceased to struggle against 
his fate. 

“I might have lived abetter life,” said the doctor 
after he was seated. “I had the ability and I have 
already achieved eminence in my profession. But 
I began wrong. There is a taint in my blood. The 
wrong was begun before I was born. The truth is, 
I come from a long line of criminals* Some men 
are born to a tendency to this, that, and the other. 


STRANGE REVELATIONS. 249 

1 was to crime. Heredity! You know so much, 
know all. 

“When I was a boy, at a time my parents were 
cast into prison, I was taken from my family, as bad 
a one as Indiana ever saw, by a charitable man of Chi- 
cago, who, perceiving mental qualities in me supe- 
rior to the ordinary run of boys, educated me. I 
went to college and then to a medical school. I 
repaid his kindness by ruining his daughter. That 
was the first beginning. To escape the conse- 
quences of that error I killed her, not purposely, but 
the result was the same, a fact discovered by a fellow 
medical student, Harry Farish. Then I employed 
him to assist me in covering my tracks. He was 
already bad, and shortly after, for some petty offense, 
had to run away. In Indianapolis he was detected 
in another and larger crime, and under the name of 
l ortescue was imprisoned. Released five years 
ago, he went to Chicago, under the name of Harry 
Langdon, where he associated himself with a band 
of thieves, robbing a bank with the connivance of a 
clerk. After this the gang came to New York. 
Langdon hunted me up and began his persecutions 
of me. I weakly submitted to the first threat, and 
they made me one of the gang in spite of myself — 
compelling me to use my knowledge of the interior 
of the houses I visited as a physician, so that they 
could rob them ” 

“Ah, the mysterious robberies!” said Cathcart. 

“Growing as I was into fame, reaching the highest 
places in my profession, I became wild, frantic, over 


250 


THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 


this slavery, and made this desperate effort to free 
myself — ” 

There was a rap at the door. 

From the force of habit the doctor cried out: 
“Well.” 

The voice of the attendant was heard in reply. 
“Doctor, Mr. Langdon says he must see you on 
a matter that cannot be delayed a moment.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 

ATHCART imposed silence with uplifted hand. 



“Ask the gentleman -to step here,” he called 


out. 


Dorison, who had been a silent and awed witness 
of the rapid events, looked inquiringly at the detec- 
tive for some indication of his purpose. 

The old man was inscrutable. 

While listening to Fassett, he had again leaned 
against the center-table in his favorite attitude — his 
hands in his vest-pockets. 

As he heard steps advancing through the hall he 
went to the door, and while admitting Langdon, 
prevented the attendant from seeing into the room. 

As the door closed upon the new comer, Langdon 
perceived Dorison, and started back in surprise 
and alarm. 

Cathcart laid his hand upon Langdon’s shoulder 
saying: 

“You are my man, Harold Farish.” 

‘ ‘Who the devil are you?’ ’ cried Langdon angrily. 

The old detective pulled off his wig and beard. 

“Simon Cathcart. You know me.” 

As he declared himself, he had shifted his posi- 
tion, so that Langdon, for the first time, saw Fassett 
bound in his chair. 


251 


252 THE MAM WITH A THUMB. 

“Oh!” he cried in a rage. “You have given 
me away, have you? This is what your independ- 
ence meant, is it? Well, Simon Cathcart, do you 
know what this man is? He is a — ” 

“I know what he is well enough,” interrupted 
the old man. “I know, too, that I have the leader 
of the new gang of burglars, when I have you.” 

“He is a fine one to ‘peach’,” growled Langdon 
viciously. “Send me up! Send me up! I’ll be 
out some time to make hell for him.” 

“You will never be out in time to do that,” said 
the physician, with a bitter and contemptuous laugh. 

Something in the tone and manner of the physi- 
cian disconcerted Landgon, yet he strove to main- 
tain his air of bravado. 

“You can’t make a long term of it.” he said to 
the detective. “You’ve first got to prove I was in 
any of the jobs.” 

“The charges against you are plenty, so are the 
proofs,” remarked the old man. “For instance, 
you can be charged with inciting the attempt to 
murder my friend here — John Dorison.” 

“Who?” almost screamed Langdon. “That John 
Dorison? He?” 

“Yes,” calmly replied Cathcart, ‘John Dorison, 
son of Reuben.” 

“My G — — !” he exclaimed, overwhelmed. 

“Yes,” quietly repeated the old man. “It is not 
a pleasant thing to think that you endeavored to 
have your half-brother killed, is it?” 

“What can this mean? — Dudley? Dorison?” 


A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 253 

“But then,’’ continued Cathcart, “that is not so 
bad as assisting in the murder of your mother and 
sister.’’ 

“No, no, no!’’ creid Langdon, frightened and 
horrified. “No, not that. I am bad enough, but 
not that. Oh Heavens, no! Not so bad as that.’’ 

The old detective, watching Fassett rather than 
Langdon, as he made the accusation, saw surprise 
steal over the face of the physician, quickly succeeded 
by malicious satisfaction, as if he had divined its 
purpose. 

“You rascal!’’ cried Cathcart, turning viciously 
on Langdon, “what do you mean by denying com- 
plicity? Do you want me to think that, being inno- 
cent, you kept away from the house when you heard 
your nearest relatives had been murdered?’’ 

“How could I go there?’’ whined Langdon. 
“To do so was to give myself away.’’ 

“You mean,’’ sternly continued Cathcart, “you 
mean your mother had evidences of your forgeries 
in her possession, which you feared had fallen into 
the hands of the police.’’ 

Taken by surprise, Langdon confessed by his 
manner that the detective had spoken the truth. 

“Well,’’ said Cathcart, “you were right. They 
did fall into the hands of the police. Here they 
are,’’ he continued, as he drew from his pocket 
the package he had taken from Fassett’s safe. 

“Here are the forged checks and notes of hand 
against Reuben Dorison, the payment of which 
through your poor mother, and of further sums to 


254 THE MAH WITH A THUMB. 

prevent your prosecution, ruined Reuben Dorison, 
your father. Those will send you up for another 
term. You can be kept out of harm’s way for 
many years.” 

Suddenly, with increased violence of voice and 
manner, Cathcart demanded : 

“If you did not kill your mother and sister, who 
did?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Langdon, with such 
anxious earnestness as would have carried belief 
with his words, if the old man had not already 
known. “I don’t know. I did not dare to show 
myself. I was afraid I would be charged if those 
papers were found. I didn’t even dare talk about 
it, though I have tried to find out.” 

“Urn,” growled Cathcart, as if he did not believe 
him. 

There was silence as the old detective fixedly 
gazed upon the scamp. 

It was Fassett who broke it. 

“Look at me, Harold Farish!” he cried, his 
strong face convulsed with hatred, malice, and 
despair — fairly devilish in its aspect. 

“Look at me,” he repeated. “I did it. I killed 
your mother and sister.” 

“You!” gasped Langdon, “You! You!” 

“Yes, I. And you were the cause. Take that 
to your false, black heart. Of all human devils I 
have known, you have been the most cruel and 
heartless. Since I have waded through so much 
blood, I wish I had killed you. Ever since we were 


A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 


2 55 


students together you have been my evil genius. 
When, in my trouble, I took you for a friend and 
adviser? you it was who put the evil thought into my 
head. When it resulted so unexpectedly fatal, you 
it was who suggested concealment. When I was 
climbing to fame and prosperity here, you it was 
who pounced upon me with this secret, and made 
me, a reputable physician, one of your band of burg- 
lars and assassins. It was to be free from you — to 
be your master, to be in possession of the proofs of 
your crimes you had told me of in your cups, that 
led me into murder. But as usual you lied. You 
said your sister held them, and not believing her, 
I killed her, to find you were the liar. Yes I killed 
them. And by all that’s foul, if my hands were 
free, I’d kill you where you^stand now.” 

Langdon was overwhelmed — he was stupefied by 
the revelation hurled at him with a malice that was 
fiendish. 

The eyes of the physician, gleaming with foul 
hatred and murderous desire, held him fas- 
cinated. 

“This is awful!” gasped Langdon. 

Criminal as he was, stained with almost every 
crime as his hands were, he had a perception of 
depravity from which even he recoiled. 

Dorison staggered to his feet in protest against 
the horror of the scene. 

Even the officer was moved, and lifted his hands 
imploringly to Cathcart, as if appealing to him to 
end it. It seemed as if Fassett had been stripped 


256 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


of all human qualities save that of speech, as if he 
had become a wild beast. 

The old detective’s purpose had been •accom- 
plished ; he had obtained confessions from both ; 
he had gotten all there was to be known, and so he 
brought the awful scene to a close. 

Pointing to Langdon he said to the officer: 

“Take that man at once to Police Headquarters — 
to Captain Lawton, and tell him that you bring him 
the leader of the gang of burglars who have bothered 
him so long. Tell him to lock the man up until I 
can come to him.” 

Dazed and stunned, Langdon obediently turned 
to follow the officer. 

“Stop,” cried Cathcart, “Let us have no mis- 
takes.” 

Taking from his pocket a leathern strap he buckled 
it on the wrists of the physician. Then, and not 
until then, he removed the handcuffs and placed 
them on Langdon, his hands crossed behind his 
back. 

“Now you can go,” said he, “and arriving there 
send two men at once. Hurry you, and let them 
hurry. ’ ’ 

As the officer left the apartment with Langdon, 
Cathcart sat down at the writing-table. 

Taking out a memorandum book he began mak- 
ing entries as coolly as if nothing out of common 
had occurred. 

So calm, so composed, so inscrutable was he that 
Porison, wound up to a pitch of intense excite- 


A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 257 

ment and nervousness, felt he could willingly horse- 
whip him for his imperturbability. 

Cathcart turned to Fassett abruptly. 

“You know I am going to lock you up. Is there 
anything you want to do here?” 

The question startled the physician, but he col- 
lected his thoughts. 

“Not here,” he replied after a moment. “There 
is something I do want to do. Write!” 

Cathcart did not comprehend him. 

“Write at my dictation,” ordered the physician 
sternly. 

The old detective wrote the names of a number 
of people, with thek addresses, as dictated by Fas- 
sett. When he had finished, the physician said: 

“Those are the names of patients who are danger- 
ously ill. They are likely to die if they do not 
receive proper medical attendance. Send that list 
to Dr. Ailingham. Let him attend them; he is 
competent. ” 

Dorison looked upon the man with open-mouthed 
astonishment. 

“Great Heavens!” he said to himself. “Here 
is a man who by his own confession has killed three 
people and wishes to kill a fourth, yet at such a 
time takes the precaution to save the lives of, others.” 

“Is that all,” asked Cathcart. 

“No; I want to write a letter to that obstinate 
old fool Dr. Roy, with whom I have had a contro- 
versy on heredity. I could have overcome him if I 
could have cited my own case in proof of my con- 


258 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


tention that the impulse to crime is an hereditary 
tendency. I want to do it now. Then I want to 
make my will.” 

“Is this bravado?” asked Dorison in thought. 
“Or a phase of human nature of which I have 
had no conception?” 

“Loosen my hands until I can do these things and 
I will thank you. I will attempt no harm to you.” 

“I am not afraid you will,” said Cathcart as he 
helped the physician to hobble to his desk with the 
roller top. Having seated his prisoner he loosened 
his hands. 

Throwing up the top, the doctor began to write 
hastily. From time to time he suspended his work, 
leaned back in his chair with his eyes on the ceiling 
as if thinking profoundly, playing with the locket 
dangling from his watch-chain. 

There was no agitation, no nervousness, no 
trepidation. He could not have written more com- 
posedly, nor with greater concentration of mind, 
had his hands been free from blood and his soul 
unstained by crime. 

He wrote a long time, and when he finished he 
inclosed the sheets he had filled in an envelope, 
which he addressed and handed, to Cathcart. 

“You will do me the favor to hand that to Dr. 
Roy. He can’t answer that argument. Now for 
the will.” 

He thought a moment. Now it was he betrayed 
an agitation he had not previously shown. In his 
nervousness he wrenched the locket he played with 


A SIGN IT IS OF EVIL LIFE. 


2 59 


from his watch-chain. Apparently unconscious 
‘ of his act, he placed it in his mouth, turning it 
over and over and biting it. Finally he spat it out 
on the desk,, ruined. 

“Oh, this will never do,” he cried, and addressed 
himself to the work of drafting his will. It was 
the work only of a moment. 

When he had finished he said : 

“You two must witness this — my will. It is brief. 
Let me read it. 

“ ‘I, Arthur Fassett, physician and surgeon, 
being of sound mind and health, but in the face of 
death for crime committed, do will and bequeathe all 
the property, whether it is money, stock, bonds, chat- 
tels, houses or real estate of whatever kind of which 
I am possessed at my death, to the Home Hospital.’ 

“I have no relatives,” he added bitterly. “My 
family have all died either in prison or on the gal- 
lows. So no one will contest the will.” 

The two signed as he desired, — Cathcart as a 
matter of course ; Dorison, with strange emotions. 

Having appended his own name, he handed this 
also to Cathcart. 

At this moment there was a stir at the front door. 
Cathcart told Dorison to admit the officers. As 
they entered the room the old detective said : 

“Handcuff this man:” 

“It is useless,” said the physician. “I do not 
intend to resist. ” 

“Perhaps,” replied Cathcart dryly and cynically. 
“Do as I tell you, officers.” 


260 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


The physician said appealingly: 

“Let me sit here a moment — only a moment — it 
will not be for long. I shall not detain you long — 
long — it is — not — for — ’’ 

Cathcart sprang to him. 

The physician’s chin had fallen on his breast 
and his eyes were glazed and rolling. 

He roused up with an effort. 

“It is near the end,” he said' chokingly. “I have 
taken poison. Death grips me. In forty seconds 
I will be dead. I had it all ready for this emer- 
gency.’’ 

He sank immediately into a stupor, and within 
the time he had predicted his heart ceased to beat. 

Overcome by this culmination of the past hour’s 
excitement, weakened as he was by the injury he 
had received, Dorison fainted. 

As unconsciousness closed upon him, he dimly 
heard Cathcart say: 

“He has cheated'the gallows.’’ 

When Dorison was restored, the old detective 
was bathing his head. Looking about him he saw 
the physician stretched upon the floor, calm in death. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CATHCART CLOSES HIS BOOKS. 

D ORISON had sustained another shock,- and he 
was carried into the consulting room. The 
attendant, still sitting at the door and unconscious 
of the tragedy enacted in the inner room, was dis- 
patched for brandy, which, being administered 
to Dorison, restored him a second time. 

Cathcart went back to give instructions to the 
officers. Reappearing he said to Dorison : 

“Come. We will go.” 

Dorison followed him out into the street, feeling 
as if he had escaped from a charnel house. They 
walked to Fourth Avenue, indeed to the Bowery 
before either spoke. Then Dorison asked: 

“Where did he get the poison?” 

“It was concealed in that locket. He opened it 
in his mouth. I ought to have my head cuffed for 
not taking precautions.” 

“It is better as it is,” said Dorison. 

They walked some distance before Cathcart 
replied. 

“ Perhaps,” he said. “ The lesson is the same. 
Crime cannot be committed without detection. 
Well, the whole search is over. You can assume 
your own name. It is cleared. I have done all 
261 


262 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


I set oat to do. I can do no more. I close the 
books. 

“ More ? ” cried Dorison. “ You’ve done all. 
You’ve done all that could be done. You’ve done 
everything. It is wonderful.” 

“ Yes,” replied the old man complacently. “It 
is pretty fair. It will show these New York people 
that the old man hasn’t lost his cunning — that 
he can work in New York as well as in the 
West.” 

“ When did you first suspect the doctor ? ” 

“ This morning, when I went into his room with 
you.” 

“ What ! ” cried Dorison, wholly surprised. 
“ This morning ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the old man. “Until then I sus- 
pected Langdon. I saw that letter from Langdon 
and the partially written reply, and the case of in- 
struments to which the lancet belonged. But that 
did not arouse my suspicions. I thought perhaps 
Langdon had taken the lancet. But when I got 
that package from the safe, the whole thing burst 
upon me in a moment. The letters and lancet took 
their place at once in the story, and I acted upon 
inspiration.” 

Dorison was so astonished that he was silent for 
a moment. Then he asked : 

“ Was Langdon’s coming an accident too ? ” 

“ Purely an accident, so far as I was concerned. 
Probably he had come to know that after the attack 
upon you last night you were brought to Dr. Fassett, 


Cathcart Closes his b.oojCs. 263 


and his visit of this morning had some reference to 
that attack. What, I cannot determine.” 

They walked along again in silence. 

“ What about Pittston ? ” 

“ He is shadowed and will be arrested during the 
day. They will all be sent up.” 

As they turned into Bleecker Street from the 
Bowery, Cathcart said : 

“ What is to be further done to set you right 
must be done by Mr. Eustace. He can do it by 
patronage of you. Go to him without delay. Give 
him that letter I gave you yesterday. Tell him all 
that has occurred to-day. One thing more.” 

They had stopped at the corner of Mulberry 
Street, and he took from his pocket the package, 
from which he drew a paper, on which there was 
writing in red ink. 

“ Take this,” he said. “ It is better with you 
than in the report I must make, since it has not 
entered into the murder case. Langdon could not 
have known of its existence or he would have had 
it. Fassett could not have known its meaning, or, 
if he did, did not care. But why these women, 
whose fortunes had gotten pretty low, didn’t use it 
I cannot tell. No one will know now. Perhaps 
they were afraid to get the money. It belongs to 
you now, by every right. It is your father’s order 
for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The 
amount, now swollen to nearly a quarter of a mil- 
lion, has been held in trust by Mr. Eustace, subject 
to that order, for many years. You are rich. Give 


264 THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 

that paper to Mr. Eustace. He will tell you all 
about it. I am going to Police Headquarters to 
write my report. Our relations are ended, but I 
hope our acquaintance is not.” 

“ I should hope not, indeed,” replied Dorison, 
warmly. 

“Well, go to Eustace now. Come to my rooms 
to-morrow, and tell me about your interview with 
him.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

CONCLUSION. 

E ARLY in the summer of 1889, the Gallia 
arrived at the port of New York after a 
prosperous voyage. 

On its -passenger list was this entry : 

“ Mr. and Mrs. John Dorison, two children and . 
maid.” 

An old gentleman, tall and distinguished, accom- 
panied by a younger man, middle-sized, plump and 
golden-haired, stood on the wharf impatiently 
awaiting the throwing up of the gang-plank. 

When the plank was placed in position, with an 
agility his years scarcely warranted, the old gentle- 
man rushed up and embraced a lady, who, smiling 
through glad tears, stood awajting him, beside John 
Dorison, by whose hand that of the old gentleman 
was warmly shaken. 

The lady, presenting a lad of five years and a 
baby girl of two, to the old gentleman, bade them 
know him as “ Grandpapa,” and also to the younger 
gentleman, who, she said, was “Uncle Charley.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the old gentleman, as he gazed 
proudly on the lady, “ my dear, you were beautiful 
as Evelyn Eustace, but as Evelyn Dorison you are 
lovely.” 

And young Eustace said : 

265 


266 


THE MAN WITH A THUMB. 


“And, father, I think John is to be complimented 
on his beauty too.” 

“ Happiness and sweet content of mind are great 
beautifiers, Charley my boy,” replied Dorison, 
laughingly. 

He advanced to greet an old man with white hair, 
keen, bright and restless eyes, who presented him- 
self with a contorted face which Dorison .knew, if 
on-lookers did not, was intended for a smile of 
gladness, and whose hands he grasped warmly, 
saying that his home coming would not have been 
complete if he could not have grasped the hand of 
him to whom he owed the possibility of his happi- 
ness and prosperity. 


THE END. 



















































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